


Little Beast

by infernalandmortal



Series: Little Beast [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernalandmortal/pseuds/infernalandmortal
Summary: John meets her eyes from across the room.What are you running from?his eyes ask.Nothing, she blinks back.Everything.“Will I see you again?” His eyes are trying not to be earnest. They are a strange shade of blue-green in the flickering yellow street light outside her house. They are uncomfortably difficult to read.“Maybe.” It’s all she can give. She’s supposed to fear boys like this. “I’d like to.”(A Memori-centric small-town AU. Title and opening excerpts fromLittle Beastby Richard Siken.)





	1. April: What the Night is Thinking

_The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night_

_is thinking. It’s thinking of love._

_It’s thinking of stabbing us to death_

_and leaving our bodies in a dumpster._

_That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone._

_I like him_  
  
_and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought._

* * *

 

Emori blinks awake in the back of her brother’s truck just as the sky goes from dark to dawn.

“Sleep well?” He asks, not taking his eyes off the road, sipping from his soda can as they jostled down an abandoned strip of highway. Emori blinks and squints into the sunrise, slipping out of the fogginess of sleep and peering out the grime-smeared window. “We’re almost to Virginia.”

“What’s in Virginia?” She stretches her neck and shoulders, which have borne the weight of her awkward sleeping position for the past seven hours.

“Nothing. That’s the point.” He waits until she struggles into the passenger seat before handing her a cup of coffee left to cool in the cupholder. She sips at the lukewarm liquid and rolls down the window. The air is cold and crisp. It tastes like summer, like foggy mornings and late nights, and it lacks the bite of chemicals and pollution that city air carries.

She hangs her head out the window and watches the trees. Their leaves are turning thicker and darker, readying themselves for the summer to come. She sees tiny towns peeking through the foliage, their steeples, general stores and decrepit homes begging to be seen. Beyond it all rises the Blue Ridge Mountains, imposing and dark, full of secrets.

While they rattle along cracked and damaged highways, she uses her calloused fingers to rub layer after layer of cheap foundation into her skin, paying special attention to her left cheek and nose where the tattoo mars her otherwise-ordinary appearance.

“Want some?” She asks Otan, offering her makeup-stained finger to him before swiping some on his scarred cheek. The dark pigment stains his pale skin. He slaps her hand away, grins when she laughs at his attempts to wipe the smudge away.

He has to stop for gas so they pull off and rattle into a sleepy town that’s stirring under the warm blanket of a late spring morning. A diner at the end of the street has its lights on and the sign on the door winks feebly. Smelling the promise of pancakes, she slips from the cab and steals her brother’s wallet from his jacket pocket.

“Hey!” He protests.

“Breakfast!” She replies in a faux-cheerful exclamation, waving a goodbye while pocketing his cash. Otan flips her the bird. She responds in kind.

The diner is cheerful and warm, a 50s throwback of sorts with a jukebox in the corner, red booths and a counter with silver-and-white stools. A tall, thin woman with cheekbones that could cut glass is standing behind the register, typing something into an ancient laptop while swearing under her breath in a tongue Emori almost knows.

“Get a newer computer!” She tells the man who appears over her shoulder. “This one sucks ass.”

“Language, Anya,” he retorts, throwing a towel over his shoulder and laying eyes on Emori. They’re dark and knowing and she shifts uncomfortably under their weight. “What can I get for you?”

“Pancakes, please,” she says, remembering her manners at the last minute. “And coffee. Black.” She fishes in her jacket for Otan’s bills and her change and hands them over to the swearing woman with the broken laptop.

“When you can get this piece of shit to open,” she thumps it with her free hand, “I’ll take your money.”

A third person appears from under the counter. He’s a head taller than her, but not much more, with dark hair and the kind of eyes that trap you like flypaper. His sharp movement upward startles her. “I would do it if you’d let me,” he grumbles to Cheekbones even as he sizes Emori up from under floppy bangs.

“Get her coffee,” is all Cheekbones says with a sharp jut of her chin in Emori’s general direction. The blue-eyed boy gives a mock salute and turns to the coffee pot. He passes her a full steaming cup and she takes a gulp out of nervousness, hissing out a curse when the steaming liquid burns her tongue.

Within moments, he’s passing her some ice water. She sips it gratefully, letting an ice cube skate over her tongue. A drop of water rolls from the corner of her lips to her chin. She wipes it away, notices him staring, gives him a wry smile because what else do you do?

Otan is in the cab of his truck, about to lay on the horn until she gets back. She turns to leave, belatedly remembers her manners once again. Anya is paying her no mind but the blue-eyed boy is.

"Thanks," she tells him, testing her burnt tongue on words. "For the water."

"It, um,” he clears his throat. “It was no problem.” His eyes don't meet hers but when she walks away, she can feel his gaze.

* * *

Their new place is the top floor of an abandoned rental home on the outskirts of town. The neighborhood is the definition of the wrong side of the tracks. Emori wanders around the decrepit building for a while. There’s graffiti on the walls, most of it unintelligible, but a piece of rotten wood is spray-painted with words she knows: _I was not happy when I wrote this_.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly to the paint and the hands that left it there, whoever’s they may be.

“What?” Otan calls from the next room over, his voice echoing off the bare floor.

“Nothing,” Emori calls back, wrapping her arms around her torso, her jacket around herself.

Otan’s head appears from around the corner. “I’m going to meet with our new buyers. There’s food in the fridge if you want it.”

“You mean it actually works?” She expects a laugh from Otan but all she receives is a nervous look. He’s worried about something - this meeting, maybe? - and she almost asks, but knows better.

Once he leaves, so does she. She walks back to town and the neon lights of the diner welcome her back. It’s less empty than before, or maybe it looks warmer in the dark. The door is welcoming and she touches the cold handle with her bad hand. Through the wrap, the metal stings.

There’s a dark-haired girl lounging in a booth, thumbing through a textbook with headphones in, and two boys kissing lazily over the counter. The blue-eyed boy is still there, hovering over the range in the kitchen, and whatever he’s cooking smells really good.

Her stomach growls at the same time he looks up. Their eyes lock and it’s a long and awkward moment before he smiles.

“Back for more?” His voice is light, teasing. Emori isn’t used to anyone teasing her but Otan. It feels nice. It feels like a betrayal too but she ignores that.

“Can I try some?” She asks, stepping closer and leaning her forearms on the counter near the kissing boys. The one on her side of the counter appraises her through sandy bangs. She angles her face away from the light and gives him a close-lipped smile. The door opens behind her, letting in the cooling night air.

“It’s not on the menu,” her boy - she calls him this for no other reason than she doesn’t know his name - says.

“I want a taste anyway,” she replies and he brings her a spoon. It’s the best damn chili she’s ever eaten.

The kissing boys are Miller and Bryan; the girl with headphones and an MIT bookbag is Raven; Cheekbones’ real name is Anya and she’s still there, mothering two girls in another booth named Lexa and Luna. Her boy tells her all of this with indifferent gestures, like he’s trying not to care too much.

Emori hears Luna call her boy John so she tries it out herself, liking the way his ears blush. “Thanks for the chili, John,” she says, and then, because her palate is anything but discerning, “that’s what it was, right?”

He smirks at her, slides a bowl across the table to Raven. “Yup.” After Raven takes a bite and gives him a thumbs-up, he turns back to Emori. “Anya and Lincoln let me play with their kitchen since mine is kinda shitty.”

“Plus you’d probably burn the place down,” Miller jibes from farther down the counter.

“That was one time, man,” John grumbles, “and it was Raven’s fault.” Raven offers a cheeky grin. “Not helping, Reyes.”

Emori scrapes her bowl with the spoon and watches Raven and Luna play look-and-look-away with one another. Luna’s eyes are old but her face is young and the class ring on her finger gives away that she can’t be more than 20. Emori guesses Raven is a little younger, but not by much.

Beside Luna, Lexa scratches away at geometry homework, muttering something under her breath at how she hates high school. Luna gives her the look Otan gave Emori back when he cared about her educational pursuits, the look that says “you had better care or else.” The whole diner is quiet, but nice. The silence doesn’t roar in her ears the way it does at home. It’s peaceful, like a warm blanket you sink into during a storm.

“Where did you say you moved here from?” Miller asks at one point.

Emori scrambles for a lie and finds a half-truth instead. “Massachusetts. I’d rather not talk about it.”

John meets her eyes from across the room. _What are you running from?_ His eyes ask.

 _Nothing,_ she blinks back. _Everything._

Eventually Anya calls Luna into the office to balance the books. Raven puts aside the books and hoists herself up on a stool so she can brace her forearms on the counter and watch Luna lean over the desk with concentration creasing her features. Emori trades a conspiratorial grin with Lexa before she can stop herself. It was surprisingly nice for the moment it lasted.

When the sun goes down and the cicadas start screaming, John’s friends start to trickle out into the night.  “I’ll close,” he tells Anya as the last of them go. She switches off the lights and the buzzing ‘open’ sign. “She can help me,” he adds, nodding to Emori.

It’s a dangerous invitation somehow. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her but she looks from Anya’s questioning eyes to John’s clever smirk and says a light “sure; I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Suit yourself.” Anya catalogs Emori’s features. She wants to scrape the makeup off her skin, feel the foundation curl under her fingernails until it’s gone.

John waits until Anya locks the door behind her to turn up the music and turn down the lights. If the current playlist is any indication, he likes acoustic piano songs or punk rock. She helps him clean up the grill and the appliances while he sings and tries to dance along.

His face is lit up in the green and red lights from the jukebox. When he gets caught up in the music he twirls her around once, twice, then shows her how to spin from one side to the other while he trades her right hand between his left and right.

When they lock up, it’s raining, the soft kind of downpour that drenches everything without making a sound. He offers to drive her home, and she gives her grudging acceptance while she regards the tin can he calls a car. The ugly maroon Oldsmobile has seen better years, but he handles it carefully on the slick roads.

“Will I see you again?” His eyes are trying not to be earnest. They are a strange shade of blue-green in the flickering yellow street light outside her house. They are uncomfortably difficult to read.

“Maybe.” It’s all she can give. She’s supposed to fear boys like this. “I’d like to.”

He smiles like a knife. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Okay.” He reaches across her, pushes open her door. “I’ll see you later.”

She watches him drive away and tilts her face to the rain, letting it stream over her warm cheeks and flushed eyelids. Then she opens the door and a knife is to her throat and Otan is shouting and the world inverts around her at the speed of light.


	2. June: History Repeats Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you going-” he almost says “home” but that word wouldn’t taste right under her tongue. “Are you going back?”
> 
> “Back where? To Virginia?” She scuffs her shoes against the floor. Her fingers drum against her leg, quick and rhythmic. “There’s nothing for me there anymore.”
> 
> “Come on. You have to stay somewhere.”
> 
> She gestures to a bench near the boardwalk. “Look. A bed,” she says drily.
> 
> “I have a perfectly good couch,” he counters. “It’s better than nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, endless love to **interlude** for her talented beta-reading skills. These chapters wouldn't be half as coherent without her constant encouragement.

****_ History repeats itself. Somebody says this. _

_ History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop, _

_ over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters. _

_ I know history. There are many names in history _

_ but none of them are ours. _

_ -[Little Beast](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/),  _ Richard Siken

* * *

 

Murphy wakes up from a three-month-old dream about a brown-haired girl illuminated by the diner’s lights. He doesn’t remember her name. He doesn’t know if she ever told him what it was. He doesn’t remember if she laughed.

He hasn’t seen her since the dark night at the diner. He misses her. Is it weird to miss someone you only met once? He has a feeling she was different. He thinks he wouldn’t have hated her.

The clock reads 5:45 a.m. Murphy hates himself both for waking so early and for no reason in particular. He also hates his ringing phone for waking him and lets Raven know when he picks up on the seventh ring.

“I knew you’d be up,” she chirps in response. Murphy swears again. “Oh shut up, Murphy. You sleep in every day. We’re going to do something fun.”

He can hear her walking across her bedroom. Her brace scrapes against the floor. He shuts his eyes against the sound. “What are we doing?”

“We all planned a beach trip yesterday,” she says. “If you opened the group chat, you’d know. And before you say you’re not coming, know this: there will be booze.”

Murphy will never admit it but he wants to belong somewhere, and belonging with Raven and Bellamy and the others is as good as anything else. Hardly believing himself, he gets dressed and meanders across town to Bellamy and Octavia’s apartment building. Raven’s truck and Bellamy’s ancient van are idling out front and Monty appears to be trying to slam something large and unwieldy into the trunk of his mom’s compact car.

“I won’t even ask,” he grumbles, sidling past Monty and Harper and going to find Raven. She’s is in the kitchen with Octavia trying to convince Bellamy to invite Clarke. He gives Murphy a  _ save me  _ look over Raven’s head, which he ignores in favor of raiding the fridge for a leftover can of Coke.

“So that’s how you take your caffeine,” Octavia says with a laugh. “I always thought you liked coffee.”

Murphy pulls a face. “Ick. No thanks.”

Bellamy laughs. He ignores him and takes the cooler outside. It’s a five hour drive and he wants to sleep as much as possible before the noise starts so he climbs into Raven’s truck and stretches his legs out over the back seat.

Lexa sits next to him and reads a book while Luna gives directions and Raven races Bellamy along a deserted highway. Murphy dozes with his head against the window but his thoughts keep flitting back to the girl from his dream. It feels stupid to think of her like that but what else is he supposed to call her?

She said he’d see her around. He hasn’t seen her since. Freaking figures.

The mystery object Monty had been attempting to cram into his trunk is a beach umbrella the size of a small house. When they stake it into the ground, the wind whistles around it but it doesn't fall. Murphy kinds of hopes it will. The image of Bellamy chasing after it is almost entertaining.

The girls strip down to their swimsuits and the boys rid themselves of their shirts, shrieking as they dive into the cold ocean waves (save Luna, who just walks in. Murphy doesn’t know how she does it, but she’s not even shivering). He thinks about sitting in the shade. He thinks about sleeping in the car all day. He thinks about his dream girl.

Once Raven starts ignoring him in favor of limping into the cold waves, leaning on Bellamy’s shoulder for support, Murphy starts walking.

He makes it halfway down the beach before tripping over a small pile of rocks that leads to an even larger pile of rocks that becomes an entire outcropping of nothing but rocks. And on the rocks sits a girl, and he’ll be damned if that girl isn’t the diner girl.

He reaches for her name and when he still can’t recall it, he clambers over the rocks until he gets to her. He stands over her awkwardly, not sure what to say since he doesn’t know her name, but he knows the sound of her laugh and the way she smiles and he figures that might be pretty damn close.

“John?” She squints up at him. “I don’t believe it.”

She’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and stained jeans. A crescent-shaped scar curved below her right eye (did she have that before?) and a dark tattoo swirled over her left cheek and over her eye (he’s almost certain she had that tattoo when they met). Her smile is a smudge over her lips and when she finally grins the sun dims just a fraction.

Or maybe he’s just a poetic sap. Either way, he’s immensely relieved when she scoots over and lets him sit beside her.

“Where have you been?” He asks. Her restless right hand moves from her hair to her sleeve to the holes on her jeans. She stares out at the sea as if it will give her a good lie.

“Away,” she settles on. “I’m sorry I never came back.” And then, after a deep breath, “I would have liked to.”

Maybe the warmth in his chest is premature but Murphy lets it bloom there because he really has nothing else to lose. “Are you coming back now?”

She frowns. Her eyes are pretty, he notices, a dark brown that fades to clear amber in the light. “There’s nothing for me there anymore.”

“What about your family?” He asks. The way her face tightens tells him he shouldn’t ask. “Never mind. Sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s fine.” She pushes her palms against her thighs. Her left hand is wrapped in some kind of dirty cloth. He runs a light finger over the wrapping, half-expecting her to slap his hand away. She doesn’t, but he feels her skin twitch under his touch.

“Do you want to see?” She asks, her voice bitter, and he thinks  _ yes _ but he says “if you want” instead. Apparently she does because she rips the wrap from her hand, face a twisted mask of resignation and bitterness, and he’s face-to-face with long fused fingers and a little nub where a thumb is supposed to be.

“I wouldn’t cover it up,” he says after a moment of inspection because he wouldn’t, because it’s cool in a weird way and because it fits her somehow. “I think it’s pretty badass.” A thick scar, red and angry, wraps around her wrist like a rope, like a noose. He wonders if she tried to strangle the life out of the part of her she seems to hate the most.

She lets out something between a laugh and a snort. “Liar.” But she’s smiling even as she tucks her hand away. “I’m hungry,” she says to nothing in particular (or maybe, he hopes, to him) as she jumps to her feet and extends her normal hand to him. “Buy me lunch?”

“We have food over there,” he points down the beach to his sort-of-friends. Miller and Bellamy are sneaking up behind Clarke, a bucket of water between them. Monty and Raven are standing somewhere near the shore collecting seashells from the sand while a speck in the distance formerly known as Luna dives beneath the waves. “If you don’t mind my friends.”

“Well, if they have food…” She gestures. “Lead the way.”

The friend group greets her with mild surprise. Miller and Raven vaguely recall her face and Jasper makes a comment about her tattoo before Harper shoves him to shut him up.

“Did we ever get your name?” Is all Bellamy asks while passing out sandwiches and chips.

Her eyes shift from face to face. She tucks her chin ever-so-slightly before she speaks. “Emori.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bellamy gives her a friendly smile. Murphy turns her name over and over in his head.  _ Emori _ . He wants to try it out on his tongue. He wonders if it would feel as familiar as when she called him John.

They eat sitting shoulder-to-shoulder and listen to the gulls and the waves and his friends. She eats her sandwich methodically, one calculated bite at a time. Murphy waits until she finishes hers before he hands her the other half of his.

“I’m not that hungry,” he says to her almost-glare. “You eat it. I want you to.”

He can feel Bellamy and Raven’s eyes on him but he focuses on Emori, the dream girl that now has a name. He catches her smiling at him when she thinks he’s not looking and he’ll be damned if he isn’t falling in love with this girl.

She saves his sandwich half and her chips for later, pocketing them when no one but him is watching. There’s something hollow in her eyes, something tired and a little sad, that creeps forward when she carefully wraps her food so it won’t be crushed. He wonders how many times she’s gone without a meal and he tries not to let it break his heart. He fails.

* * *

“So I’m curious,” he starts and he can already tell by how she looks at him that this is going to be a bad idea. “Where’ve you been these past three months?”

She sidesteps a hole in the boardwalk. A seagull squawks at them both as a dark cloud obscures the sun overhead. “It wasn’t my decision to leave.” She stops walking and  _ looks  _ at him, and it feels like her eyes are piercing into the darkest parts of who he is. “I was taken and punished for stealing from another thief.” She laughs, dark and wry, and her face twists into resignation, hatred, pain. “And now I’m here.”

“You got away?”

She shakes her head. “They left me here. Took my brother’s body with them. Who knows where they’ll dump it.” Her voice is dismissive but it catches in her throat the same way his does when he talks about his mother.

“Why would someone come after you? Theft isn’t that bad...all things considered.”

She shrugs. “We did bad things. I still do.” She looks up at him and he swears he can see the hope dying on her face. “You should just walk away.”

“Maybe,” he shoves his hands in his pockets because the only other option is to brush away the wayward hairs sticking to her cheek and he really doesn’t want to do that. “Then again, I might surprise you.”

She steps a little closer, bumps his shoulder with hers. “You already have.”

He wants to tell her something to ease the sting of her brother’s death but he’s not so great at words in general, so comforting ones are out of the question. She weaves her good fingers through the holes in her shirt while he tries for words.

“Come on,” he says, tugging her by the cloth-covered hand toward a thrift shop on the corner. “I’m getting you another shirt.”

She frowns, looking down. “What’s wrong with mine?”

Murphy reaches for her good hand, extracting her fingers from the holes. “It’s a mess. And I’m guessing these are the only clothes you have right now.”

She finds a massive long-sleeved shirt with sleeves that fall over her overlarge hand and drown her normal one. Murphy pays for it despite her protest and watches in amusement as she wraps herself up, curling her larger hand into the fabric.

“This is nice,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

It occurs to him that she is not used to being comfortable. He feels protective of her somehow, maybe because he knows what it is to feel unsafe.

“Where are you going now?” He asks, his voice low under the music playing in the store. “Are you going-” he almost says “home” but that word wouldn’t taste right under her tongue. “Are you going back?”

“Back where? To Virginia?” She scuffs her shoes against the floor. Her fingers drum against her leg, quick and rhythmic. “There’s nothing for me there anymore.”

“Come on. You have to stay somewhere.”

She gestures to a bench near the boardwalk. “Look. A bed,” she says drily.

“I have a perfectly good couch,” he counters. “It’s better than nothing.”

She appraises him, clever eyes sweeping over his face. “You live alone? Are you old enough?”

He frowns. “I’m eighteen,” he defends. “I was an emancipated minor.”

“The state couldn’t be assed to take care of you, huh?” She asks, laughing slightly. 

“My mom, actually, but yeah.” He half-expects an  _ I’m sorry _ . He’s grateful when it doesn’t come.

After a long, slow moment, she sighs out an “okay.” She pulls her shirt aside to reveal the crude knife strapped to her belt. “If you try anything,” she begins with a wink so he knows she’s teasing, “I will kill you in your sleep.”

Murphy can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “So you’ll come?”

She searches his eyes for something, and she must find it because she smiles. “Yes. I’ll come.”

* * *

When they leave the coast, Murphy expects a fight over whether or not to bring Emori home. To his surprise, the only dissent is from Bellamy, who questions the safety of allowing a stranger who admitted to theft into his apartment.

“What would she steal?” Murphy counters, fighting the urge to smack the worry from Bellamy’s face. 

“Your heart!” Harper calls from down the boardwalk, her hands cupped around her mouth. Raven guffaws. Miller claps him on the back. When he looks over to meet Emori’s eyes, she’s grinning, carrying a cooler with Lexa and talking to Luna about something he can’t catch over the wind.

Emori rides in the back of Raven’s car on the way home, her back to the door and her head tilted back against the window. Murphy watches her in the rearview mirror from the front seat. Raven keeps her eyes carefully on the road, but a smirk slowly spreads across her face with every glance Murphy steals.

“Lover boy,” she sings sarcastically under her breath.

“Fuck you,” he sings back, following the same tune. Raven chuckles. In the mirror, he sees Emori smile even as her eyes drift shut.

“Should I ask why you invited her home?”

Murphy shrugs. “She needed somewhere to stay.”

Raven snorts. “Since when are you so benevolent?”

“I’m not,” he grumbles. “I just…”

“She compels you,” Lexa chimes in from the backseat, carefully moving Emori’s legs over so she can spread out on the seat.

“That’s one word for it,” he concedes. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

He dozes until Raven pulls over near his apartment complex and reaches back to shake Emori awake. She wakes instantly, eyes wide and a little frightened, but seems to have calmed by the time they reach his front door.

“This is not what I was expecting,” she tells him as she roams the tiny living area, home to a small kitchen and a threadbare couch.

Murphy tosses his keys onto the counter. “What were you expecting?” He shrugs off his jacket, tosses it on top of the keys.

She flops onto the couch. “Something...sadder.”

Murphy thinks his home plenty sad, but he says nothing. He toes off his shoes and lets Emori stack hers near the door. “You can take the bed,” he tells her, raking his hands through his hair, trying not to think about her curled under his blankets.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine out here.” The way she plants herself on the couch tells him she won’t listen to an argument.

He goes to give her an extra blanket from his room, but she’s already asleep when he returns. He drapes it over her anyway, watching in something like awe as her fist wraps around the blanket’s corner. She looks soft and safe like this, and it calms him to watch her chest rise and fall, hearing her soft sigh when she shifts.

* * *

A few hours later, he hears her let out a strangled cry. He bolts from his room, flinging open the door, and sees her sitting up, knees to her chest, looking vulnerable and shaken and scared.

“Emori?” He asks carefully, turning on his bedroom light, squinting in the sudden brightness. She doesn’t look at him, can’t without squinting, so he crosses the cold bare floor and kneels beside her. “You okay?”

She shudders, swallows her tears, and turns toward him. “I’ll be okay.” Her voice is low. He sees the wrap unraveling from her hand and takes the liberty of finishing the job.

“You really don’t mind?” She asks softly.

“Like I said, I wouldn’t cover it up.” He caresses the palm once, twice. “I think it’s pretty badass.”

She laughs once. “Liar.” But when she curls back into her nest of blankets and pillows, he can see that she’s smiling.

He sits next to her, resting his hand on her leg. She doesn’t flinch away. He doesn’t know if he’s expecting her to or not. “Want to talk about it?”

She nestles into the blankets, turning so her face is obscured by shadow. The tattoo arching over her face captivates him. “My brother… He was shot in the head. In front of me.” She sniffles. A tear rolls from the corner of her eye to her hairline. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” Murphy breathes. “No, Emori, it’s not.” He wants to gather her into his arms, wants to shield her from whatever it is she carries, but he doesn’t. Self-restraint has always been his strong suit.

“How would you know?” Her voice trembles. “You weren’t there.”

“Did you pull the trigger?” She shakes her head. “Then it wasn’t your fault.”

“None of this would have happened if I didn’t have this.” She let her hand thump on the blanket as she sits up to face him. “Our mom would have wanted me. Otan would have stayed home too, and none of this would have happened.”

She’s trembling. One tear rolls down her cheek, then another and another, until she’s making awful quiet sounds in the back of her throat that sound like stifled sobs.

“Come here,” he murmurs and she curls against his side, her head against his shoulder. He runs his fingers through her hair and they both fall asleep like that, soft and safe and trying very hard to be okay.


	3. June: You Could Drown in Those Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She looks at her lap in shyness or shame - she doesn't know which, but the feeling is familiar - and sees her left hand, unwrapped and awful in the light. She holds it up in John’s full view. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not normal.”
> 
> He reaches for it and she lets him run long, delicate fingers over the overlarge palm. “Being badass is better, anyway,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking the scar around her wrist.
> 
>  _You don't have to tell me,_ his eyes say.
> 
> She wants to tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **interlude** is an all-star, as always. This chapter wouldn't be half as good without her help.  
>  I hope you enjoy!

_You could drown in those eyes, I said._

_The fact of his pulse,_

_the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire_

_not to disturb the air around him._

_Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,_

_the way we look like animals,_

_his skin barely keeping him inside._

_-[Little Beast,](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _ Richard Siken

* * *

She wakes up to sun creeping through the blinds. John is asleep in the ratty armchair near the couch, his limbs askew, his hair messy. She takes her blanket, covers him up, and props a pillow under his head.

She remembers falling asleep last night with her head on his shoulder, his heartbeat thrumming pleasantly somewhere near her ear. When she rubs the back of her hand over her cheek, she feels dried salt.

She remembers a nightmare, the faint tendrils of it teasing at her consciousness. Otan was there, she remembers that much, and the thought of them together again, safe in their apartment, is enough to make a lump rise in her throat, fast and insistent. For a moment it isn’t John she’s caring for, but Otan. She can pretend that she’s woken up after a late night and he’s still asleep beside her, his hair a mess, his shirt wrinkled. He stayed up late last night going over the budget and the jobs they had lined up, she pretends, and he needs to sleep.

He used to be the responsible one, the money minder and the conscientious one alike. And then he got older and made friends that took him from her, but she never minded. She owes him her life. She never allows herself to forget.

She shakes her head, the cobwebs of her dream floating away, and John stirs with her motion. She freezes, waiting for him to wake, but when he doesn’t, she silently reaches for her shoes, lacing them efficiently and harshly. She’s going for a run to clear her head.

What is she doing? Emori begins to pummel herself as she slips from the apartment. The door clicks shut but she has no way of locking it. With a sigh, she digs a bobby pin out of her pocket and finesses the lock so no one from the outside can get in. Otan taught her that trick when they only had one set of keys between them.

There’s that pang again. She is not allowed to miss him. She is not allowed to mourn him - not when it’s her fault he's gone. Her left hand feels unbearably heavy at her side, weighing her down as she clatters and runs down the service stairs of John’s building.

She takes the final corner before the exit door too sharply and bangs her shoulder against the wall. It's hard concrete, tagged with graffiti, and suddenly she is back in the Baltimore warehouse, cowering in the corner, the walls and floor splattered with his blood.

Her heart clenches. She runs faster, her loose hair flying around her face in time with the wind and her gait. Her feet take her down to the highway, and all the way up to the house where she was taken. She climbs the stairs to the room that would have been hers and runs her good hand over the graffiti she remembers from their first day here.

_I was not happy when I wrote this._

“Me either,” she says aloud, voice harsh in the silence. The sadness she felt at those words is gone. There's no room for softness in her anymore.

Her backpack is still in her ransacked room, sitting in the corner in a sad, lumpy heap. The scavenged and stolen tech she and Otan worked so hard for was long gone, but her clothes and the small sum of money she had sewn into the backpack’s lining still remained. She crams everything she can inside and does not look back as she smashes the front lock to the house on her way out.

 _You’re relying on someone’s kindness. That's a stupid thing to do,_ Otan’s voice chides as she walks toward the highway.

“Shut up,” she says to the desolate road. “I’m the sensible one, not you.”

She wonders if John will let her stay. His trust is a strange thing; it seems hard to earn but easy to keep. She's seen it before, this naive earnestness, this wordless prayer to be wanted, to be loved. Those things used to make a home in her own reflection before they were sacrificed on a kitchen table in D.C., a basement step in Boston, a warehouse floor in Baltimore. The blood and bile on her hands terrifies her. It's why she learned to run.

She does like John, though, truly. Something about him fits so perfectly with something about her. He doesn't need her to be anything other than what she is. It's a strange acceptance but she finds it to be safe.

She lets herself into the service stairs, finding the fire door unlocked and disarmed just as she left it. She wiggles John’s front door handle until the lock disengages and, though she’s worried about waking him, she can’t suppress the smirk of satisfaction at her success.

John must have woken up while she was gone. He’s in the kitchen, wearing rumpled pajamas and an annoyed grimace, with his hand in the toaster, chipping away at something with a butter knife.

“I wasn't sure you'd come back.” He winces as a piece of burned bread goes flying to the floor. “Normally I'd have breakfast ready by now but-”

“But you broke the toaster,” she says, hearing the fond exasperation in her voice, allowing it to stay.

“That,” he points the knife at the offending burnt crust, “got stuck.”

“Sure, John.” Emori opens the fridge, staring inside appraisingly. He actually has food, more food than she'd ever seen in one house. She reaches for the carton of eggs, holding it clumsily in her left hand. “Just eat these. They’re good, right?”

He looks at her in confusion. “You've never had eggs before?” When she shakes her head, he blinks in surprise, then snatches the carton from her hand. “Sit down. I'm making you breakfast.”

He fries the eggs with careful precision, then makes her toast with butter and pours her a cup of coffee while she eats. He makes a plate for himself too and sits across from her at the card table and folding chairs that pretend to be a dining room set.

“So...what?” John asks around a mouthful of toast. “You're one of those people who don't eat breakfast?”

She shakes her head, dividing the rest of her eggs in half. Some for now, some for later. “Just never really had it.”

She can feel his eyes on her moments before he reaches out, takes the fork from her hand, and pushes her egg piles back together. “Normal people eat lunch too.” His voice is quiet. She senses that he understands.

She looks at her lap in shyness or shame - she doesn't know which, but the feeling is familiar - and sees her left hand, unwrapped and awful in the light. She holds it up in John’s full view. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not normal.”

He reaches for it and she lets him run long, delicate fingers over the overlarge palm. “Being badass is better, anyway,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking the scar around her wrist.

 _You don't have to tell me,_ his eyes say.

She wants to tell him.

“I was fourteen. I found out that my mother abandoned me because of it. My brother never told me. I tried to cut it off because I was angry and hurt.” There. It doesn't sound so horrible. And it's the truth, mostly. She left out the worst part, but what he knows won't hurt him.

John is looking at her with gentle eyes that hold a bit of sadness and pain. They're blue, endlessly hurt and startlingly beautiful. His thumb is still rubbing gentle circles on her wrist. She focuses on the feeling, narrows her body’s awareness to the single place where his hand makes contact.

He says something she doesn't hear and releases her after a moment, mumbling an apology and clearing the table. Before she can think, she jumps to her feet, taking her plate to the sink.

“Why are you sorry?” she asks lowly, leaning against the counter. John is pointedly not meeting her eyes.

“I don't-” he clears his throat, starts again. “I don't touch people.”

She frowns. “I should be saying sorry, then.”

He sighs in frustration. She knows it's not meant for her so she keeps her silence. He ducks into the bathroom for a shower after the kitchen is clean and she stands before the photo frames on the wall, the only decoration in the place, and looks.

They're nice pictures, at least to her untrained eye. One is a group photo taken in front of the diner by an obviously shaky hand. Emori recognizes some faces - John and Miller, Raven and Bellamy, Luna and Lexa, Anya and Lincoln - but she doesn't recognize the dark-skinned girl next to Lexa, the blonde with her arms around Bellamy’s shoulder or the thin girl with piercing eyes on Bellamy’s other side.

The second photo is of Raven, Bellamy, Miller and John seated in a location Emori’s never seen. Captioned with _The Core Four_ in blocky script, it depicts them exactly as they are: Bellamy with his nose in a book, Raven elbows-deep in a mechanical project, Miller twirling his beanie around his finger and John staring into the distance. She traces his profile with her eyes for a long moment before moving on.

The final photo is probably her favorite. It's him, in his house on his couch, his elbows braced on his knees. He's looking just past the camera with an expression that is almost soft.

“I didn't want to keep it up,” he says from around the corner, making her jump in surprise. “But she insisted.”

“She?” Emori asks, trying to keep her face neutral even though he's shirtless and flushed from the shower’s warm water. He's pretty in a lean, easy way. She wonders how his collarbone would feel under her fingers.

“Costia.” He points to the first picture, to the girl next to Lexa. “She was a photographer. She wanted to be, anyway.” To Emori’s frown, he says, “She died last year. Lexa still hasn't recovered. I keep the pictures up for her.”

“I didn't know you were into this artsy shit,” she teases.

He grins. “You have much to learn, I guess.”

She hums, lets her eyes flicker over his torso and is rewarded with a flush crawling over his cheeks and chest. “I guess.”

She doesn't let her eyes stray from the pictures again until he walks away and even then she catches an unwitting glimpse of his bare back. She sees scars arching over his shoulders. They look like nail marks. She is almost angry at the sight.

* * *

 

“So are you staying?” he asks as she sprawls out on the couch with a needle and thread, hell-bent on repairing the damage done to the shirts and jeans in her backpack. She wants to look better, she decides, if only so John will stop buying her clothes.

She watches as he perches next to her. He sounds hopeful, looks it too. She knows she should crush the gleam in his eye but, for the first time in a long while, she can't make herself choose the survivor’s move.

“If you want me to.”

“I kind of do,” he admits.

“Okay,” she says and watches in wonder as a slow, real smile spreads over his face.

 _This is bad,_ Otan's voice tickles the back of her brain. _You should not do this._

Emori pricks her finger with the needle. His voice is silent. The blood drips onto her black shirt. Beside her, John leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. He sleeps a lot, she observes, but the circles under his eyes never seem to disappear.

“Where'd you get the clothes?” he asks, lids fluttering,

She shrugs, though he can't see. “Salvation Army. Dumpsters. Lost and founds.” She smirks, a memory tugging at her. “I used to steal quarters from my brother to wash them at a laundromat. I hated dirty clothes.”

John opens his eyes halfway, appraising her from under long lashes. “What, your mom didn't give a shit?” It sounds harsh, but she supposes it’s fair. She doesn’t blame him for being sensitive to neglectful parents, not after his own life’s experience.

Emori stares at the shirt in her lap. “I didn't really know either of my parents. Otan - my brother - took care of us.”

John’s eyes close again as he spreads his arms out, resting them on the back of the couch, close enough to touch her shoulder. His fingers absently play with her hair and she leans into the feel of it, the gentle tug at her scalp, the soft sounds as the strands rasp against his callouses.

“I know a guy,” he starts with a sigh. “His name’s Bellamy.” She remembers him from the beach. He had kind eyes, worried and dark but with crinkles around them from smiling. “He has a kid sister, Octavia, and his mom basically put him in charge of her when she was born. He worked to give her what she needed and took care of her no matter what. It sucked for him but she turned out okay.” He looks sideways at her. “I'm glad your brother did that for you.”

Emori fights to keep the lump in her throat from choking her. “You don’t like him, do you? Bellamy, I mean.”

John smirks. “Nah. He’s a dick. But then, I did threaten his sister, so maybe that's why he hates me.” He lifts his head from the couch. “Are all brothers like that? Or was it just him?”

Emori laughs. “Otan trusted me. But he didn't trust anyone else with me.”

John’s fingers are still tangled in her hair. He gives it a gentle tug. “I wouldn't bet against you.”

“Good. You'd lose.”

His lips quirk upwards. “Am I going to have to worry about you stealing my quarters?” He's still teasing. She likes it.

“I don't know.” She leans forward, gives him a look over her shoulder. “I guess you'll just have to keep an eye on me.”

She swears she could hear him swallow. His fingers tighten in her hair. His eyes are wide open, looking at her, looking through her. She meets his intense stare and, for a delirious moment, wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

* * *

 

They walk down to the diner because they're both too lazy to cook dinner. As Emori suspects, Miller and Bryan are there, along with Lexa, Bellamy and the slender blue-eyed girl Emori saw in the picture.

“Mori, this is Octavia,” John introduces. Emori feels her heart stutter at the nickname.

“Hey.” Octavia brushes her hands on her jeans and shakes Emori’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Emori jams both hands into her pockets. “John told me about you.”

Octavia barks a short laugh. “What did he say?”

“That your brother’s a dick,” John calls from further down the counter.

“Well,” Octavia winks at Emori before asking John if he's going to stand there all day or order something.

John orders for both of them, insisting that Emori can't make informed culinary decisions. After passing the orders to Miller, Octavia fixes John with a glare. “Bellamy’s been trying to call you.”

“Sorry. My phone was off.” John doesn’t sound sorry. Emori hides a smirk.

“It’s fine,” Bellamy pops out from behind the office, sighing laboriously. “Anya wanted that chili recipe you made the other day.” Emori wonders if it’s the same chili he made for her. “Just write it down for her when you get a chance?” He grabs his keys from his jacket pocket. “I’ve gotta get more ice. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, O.”

Octavia mutters something about making no promises. John’s snort makes Emori laugh. The startled look he gives her is rewarding.

“J!” Emori turns to see Raven waving at them from a booth. Luna sits across from her, eerily still. “Come sit with us!”

John sighs. “I'm sorry in advance,” he whispers, leading the way. Luna presses her shoulder against the wall so John can sit beside her and Emori slides in next to Raven.

“I'm sorry,” she's quick to say as her foot clangs against the outside of Raven’s brace.

“Don't worry about it,” Raven waves her off, passing half her French fries to John. “It's not like I can feel it anyway.”

John looks distinctly pained. Emori wonders why, but Raven drops the subject before she can ask. “Luna, have you met Emori?”

Luna’s face is unreadable. Emori wonders if she has already forgotten her from the beach. “We’ve met,” is all she says, dark eyes boring into her.

Raven is one of those people that makes it easy to just exist around her. Emori guesses it's because her mind moves faster than anyone else’s. John keeps trying to include her in the conversation but she doesn't mind listening to Raven talk to John about mutual friends and whatever ridiculous thing happened at her job that day.

“She works at a mechanical engineering lab,” John tells her at one point when Raven stops to breathe. “Her brain is always turned on.”

“That's a poor choice of words,” Luna mutters. Raven chokes on her burger in surprise. John stands up, reaches over and whacks her on the back, smiling when Emori laughs.

“Who knew Luna would get to the innuendo before me?” Raven quips, her lips twisting into a smirk. Luna tosses some hair over her shoulder with a satisfied look in her eyes.

Emori envies how Luna moves: self-assured, soft, peaceful. It's the kind of grace that comes with the knowledge that your place in the world is secure. Emori has never had that luxury. She's not sure what she would do with it now.

They return their trays to Octavia, who’s leaning with her forearms braced on the front counter, looking outside, watching what looks to be a heated exchange between Bellamy and another boy with long dark hair. Bellamy is blocking him from entering the diner and the mystery man does not look happy.

“Is that him?” Raven asks in a hushed tone. When Octavia nods, Raven whistles under her breath. “Damn, Baby Blake.”

“Dating another cradle-robber?” John sizes the guy up. “He doesn't look as old as the last one.”

Octavia shoves him none-too-gently. “I thought Lincoln was _dead,_ ” she hisses. “Now shut the fuck up.”

Emori tries to tamp down the protective anger that wells within her when Octavia touches John. She focuses instead on Bellamy’s angry eyes as he turns his back on Mystery Man and stalks into the diner, slamming the door behind him.

“Watch it!” Anya barks from in the office around the corner.

“Sorry,” Bellamy's voice is sheepish but his face is anything but. “So, O, you wanna tell me about that?”

“Not really,” Octavia ducks into the back. Mouthing a curse, Bellamy follows her.

John turns to Emori with the barest hint of amusement flickering over his features. “And that's the diner,” he says, expanding his arms in a _ta-da_ gesture.

“Don't you all have homes to get to?” Lincoln questions good-naturedly as he sidles through the front door with two boxes in each hand. The boy Bellamy had fought with slips in behind him, probably hoping Lincoln’s hulking presence is enough to hide him.

“This is going to be interesting,” Emori whispers to Luna, who is watching the scope of the room with calculating eyes.

“Ah, I love the straights,” Lexa sighs, sidling up to Luna, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “They're so...entertaining.”

“Don't be so superior,” Luna scolds like an older sister, Emori notices. “It's not a good look on you.”

Bellamy and the other boy size one another up again while Octavia watches, obviously praying for an interruption.

“So you're the guy.” Subtlety isn't lost on Raven, apparently. Emori watches in consternation and surprise as Raven appraises him.

“Illian,” he introduces himself, shaking Raven’s hand with a close-lipped smile.

“Oh, we know.” She and John share a look. By now, a small cluster has formed near the front of the diner; Miller and Octavia have come out to circle around Illian alongside Raven and John. If this was her old neighborhood, punches would be thrown any minute now. But Emori only senses the friends’ worry about the happiness of one of their own.

When Raven starts making small talk with Illian and Octavia’s frown eases into a mild squint, John separates himself from the crowd. “We can go if you want,” he tells her, his tone almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”

Emori feels something warm bloom in her chest. “I don’t mind. I like it.”

He gives her the strangest look. “Why?”

“They’re your friends. Your family.” She hears the raw longing in her voice, tries to tamp it down and fails miserably. “They love you.”

John frowns ever-so-slightly and Emori wants to question his doubts but there isn’t time for that, not when Bellamy claps a hand on his shoulder as he walks past and John flinches.

There’s that protectiveness again, that anger that someone would hurt him. “Watch it,” she growls.

“It’s nothing,” John murmurs in her ear. She’s torn between concentrating on the shivers running down her spine and staring at Bellamy until he caves under her glare.

In the end, she does both.

* * *

John doesn’t ask until they’re a block away from the diner. “What was that for?” he asks softly, kicking a pebble into the gutter.

“He hurt you.”

“He barely touched me!”

“You flinched.” She chances a look at him. His eyes are dark, fixed somewhere ahead of them that only he could see. “Why?”

“I don’t like people touching me,” he says.  “And I don’t touch people.” She reaches out her right hand, fingertips brushing against the pale skin of his wrist. He doesn’t flinch, just looks at her in equal parts surprise and fascination.

She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t mind when it's you,” he admits.

Her heart is loud and triumphant in her chest. “I don't either,” she murmurs and lets him wrap his arm around her shoulders.

He doesn't speak until they're in the cocoon of his dark apartment, buried under blankets and nestled into either end of the couch.

“I had good parents,” he says, voice breaking the silence. “They loved me and loved each other. And then I got sick and my dad died and my mom hated me after that.”

He pulls his knees to his chest and curls his fingers into tight fists. “She drank,” he continued. “A lot. And the last thing she said before she died was that I killed my father.”

He shrinks in on himself with every word, burrowing deeper and deeper into some dark place in his mind. Emori wants to hold him, to touch his cheek and bury her face in his neck. “No one loved me then. So I tried to escape. And now I'm here.” He is silent again. His self-hatred hangs heavy in the air. She's suddenly glad she didn't tell him this morning that she was drunk when she tried to take off her hand.

Emori stretches her legs out, feeling the blanket’s warmth slip away, and when he doesn't react to her motion, she looks and sees that his eyes are closed, lids fluttering slowly as he falls into slumber.

She pulls the covers up under his chin and rests her right hand against his cheek for a moment. “Someone loves you now, John,” she whispers, a lump in her throat. He can’t hear her. That’s why she says it.

She falls asleep with her bare feet against his legs and the sound of his breathing in her ears. She wakes up to his knuckles brushing gently over her cheek and opens her eyes to his sleepy look of gratitude.


	4. July: So It's Summer, So It's Suicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t believe he’s doing this, but Raven’s the only one he has. No way is he going to ask Bellamy for advice. “I have a problem. With Emori.”
> 
> Now she's paying attention, the vibrating phone forgotten beside her hand. “What did she do?”
> 
> “Nothing!” Murphy is instantly defensive. He hates his friends’ distaste for her. “It's me. I think I'm falling for her.”
> 
> Raven raises an eyebrow, her look of worry turning to an expression of delight. “No shit, Sherlock. We were all waiting for you to figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the slow burn moves a little faster now that I'm a) impatient and b) even more Memori trash than before SDCC
> 
> As always, kudos to [interlude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/interlude/pseuds/interlude) for her help, support and editing.

_ You could drown in those eyes, I said, _

_ so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, _

_ so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool. _

* * *

 

Murphy is still unused to Emori’s quiet presence, her soft eyes, her solid little body curled up on his couch underneath a mound of blankets. He’s pleasantly surprised whenever he sees her sitting at the dining room table. He likes seeing her leaning over the mirror in the bathroom, brushing foundation over the tattoo on her face. On mornings like this, when he stumbles from his room still half-asleep, it warms him in a slow, special way to see her in the kitchen making toast, which she likes with butter and jelly.

“Morning, John,” she smiles at him from the corner by the toaster. “Sleep well?”

“No,” he grumbles, shuffling into the living room to collapse on the couch. He’s not a morning person, and Emori knows this. He thinks she acts so cheerful every morning just to prove a point.

“Ow!” he yelps, now wide-awake and startled, as he stubs his toe on the bag halfway underneath couch. “Emori, what the hell?”

“Sorry!” She pops out from behind the pantry door, crosses the kitchen in a few swift steps, and shoves the bag further under the couch. Now that he’s awake, he sees how adorable she is when her hair is messy from sleep.

“What’s in there?” he can’t help but ask.

She kneels down, retrieves the bag, and pulls the zipper open. A tangled mess of cords and screens and boxes hides beneath the shadows. “I collect tech.”

“You mean steal it?” He sees the smashed security tag on a laptop box.

“When I have to.” She twists her mouth into a smirk and then a doubtful frown. She thinks he’s judging her, he realizes with a start.

“That’s kind of scary,” he starts, watching her nimble right fingers zip the bag closed again. “But a little badass.”

She smiles. It’s a real, lopsided thing that lights up her entire face. “You think everything I do is badass.”

He fights to keep the smile from his lips. “Maybe,” he drawls.

She laughs lightly and shoves the bag back under the couch. “Now get off my bed!”

Murphy ignores her, instead straightening her pillows and fixing her blankets. He knows he should offer her something better than a couch to sleep on - especially since she’s been living with him for a month - but she’s already made her stance on taking his bed very clear. “We can share,” she had said with just the smallest hint of discomfort. Murphy declined immediately, not just because he’s a stand-up guy but because the thought of sharing a bed with anyone ever again makes his skin crawl.

He wonders if the Blakes still have that ancient cot Bellamy used to sleep on when he had Miller, Raven and Murphy sleep over. It was hideous, but he remembered it as comfortable. It was better than his couch, in any case.

Emori goes back to the kitchen, and Murphy calls Bellamy.

“Yeah?” Bellamy answers on the fourth ring.

“Do you still have that cot?” Murphy asks without much preamble. “The one we used when we were kids?”

He hears Bellamy sigh. “It’s probably around here somewhere. Maybe in Mom’s old room. Let me go look.”

He puts the phone down and, unsurprisingly, Octavia picks it up. “Hey, Murphy,” she says around a mouthful of what sounds like cereal.

“Hey, Baby Blake.” Murphy doesn’t have anything against Octavia, not really. She’s a bit abrasive sometimes, but she has a good heart. “What’s up?”

“How’s it going with your girlfriend?” She asks teasingly.

“Not my girlfriend,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He can picture her waving a spoon in the air the way she does in the diner when Miller says something annoying. “How’s it going?”

He looks toward the kitchen. Emori is standing near the stove eating a piece of dry toast, clad only in a long shirt that falls to her knees. When he catches her eye, she gives him a grin and a little wave. “It’s fine,” he tells Octavia to appease her, though the heat rising in his cheeks tells him something slightly different.

Bellamy presumably snatches the phone away from his sister because Murphy hears a annoyed “Bell!” before Bellamy’s voice is back in his ear. “We have it. It’s kinda dusty, but I can clean it up if you want it.”

“Okay. Thanks.” The word tastes funny. “I’ll come and get it after work?”

He knows Bellamy is about to offer to drive it over. He also knows that Bellamy will bite his tongue against that offer; Murphy hates charity and Bellamy knows it. “Sounds good,” Bellamy says instead. He hangs up, and Murphy chucks his phone onto the couch.

“Bellamy’s bringing me his old cot,” he tells Emori, who is now sitting on the counter with a half-empty jar of peanut butter between her legs and a spoon in her mouth. “If I sleep on that, will you please take the bed?”

She frowns. “I want to see this cot first and make sure it's comfortable,” she tells him, jumping off the counter. “Then I’ll tell you. If it’s not comfortable, you’re not sleeping on it.” She pads off into the bathroom, and, as Murphy puts her jar of peanut butter back into the refrigerator, he catches himself smiling.

He’s learned things about her, things he wouldn’t have bothered to pick up if it weren’t for the fact that she was so damn memorable. She has a weird thing about food; she scarfs down every meal as if she isn’t sure when she’ll eat again, but he also finds her stashing nonperishable foods in her backpack when he wasn’t paying attention. He remembers Luna talking about “resource guarding,” and he idly wonders if that's the case with Emori. Then again, he’s not even sure what the hell that is. He makes a mental note to look it up later. 

He doesn’t mind when she takes his food. Two jobs set him up with decent grocery money and he keeps finding worn $5 and $10 bills shoved under his socks or in his jacket pockets. He suspects Emori - who else would it be? - but he doesn’t know where’s she’s getting the money. 

She’s a study in contradiction, and he loves chasing after her, even if it might kill him in the end.

When she emerges from the bathroom, hair loose and dripping wet onto her shirt, arms wrapped around her torso to hide her uncovered left hand, he has to take a few deep breaths. Ever since a sleepy June morning when he hadn’t been able to resist brushing dried tears from her cheeks, he’s been trying to choke down the affectionate feelings threatening to overwhelm him. 

It hasn’t been working. And it still bothers him that she cries in her sleep, especially since he doesn’t know why.

“You can get in if you want.” She tilts her head towards the bathroom. Murphy shakes his head, reaching for his phone. Her eyes flit toward his hands. “That’s your phone?”

Murphy nods. He pictures her bag of stolen tech and knows where this conversation is headed. “Yeah. It sucks but… Emori, no.”

She kneels on the floor, shoves his legs aside, predictably not acknowledging his cautions, and reaches for the duffle bag. After some careful one-handed rummaging - during which her left hand remains tucked under her thighs - she produces a slender silver smartphone. “Give,” she says, motioning for his phone.

“I’m gonna regret this,” he mutters but passes the phone over because how can he say no to her earnest need to pay him back for whatever it is she thinks she owes him. She pops the SIM card from his phone, inserts it into the new one and grins up at him when the sleek machine starts up with a cheerful sound.

“Much better,” she sighs, passing it over. He turns it over in his hands and grimaces when it starts to vibrate. “Group texts?” Emori asks.

Murphy nods. “We have, like, three.” Upon her questioning look, he elaborates, “One for Raven, Bellamy, Miller and I, one for everyone, and one for the diner employees.”

“Sounds stressful.” Emori picks at the scaly, dry skin on her left hand. It looks like it’s never been cared for. Murphy wonders if she’d let him touch it. She’d probably take off his finger with the thin knife she usually keeps strapped to her combat boot.

“It’s what it takes,” he mutters, then wishes he hadn’t when her clever ears pick it up.

“What does that mean?”

Murphy sighs, setting the new phone down on the table. “I never really belong anywhere. I’m sure you noticed.” The callous bitterness in his voice doesn’t turn her eyes hard. He’s still getting used to that. “They’re better than nothing. They don’t particularly like me, but they don’t hate me either.” He trails off then.

Emori’s fingers are still worrying at her left hand. She’s picked a piece of skin off one of the malformed knuckles. The revealed skin starts to well with blood.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching down for both of her hands. “Don’t.”

He could press his lips to her knuckles. He doesn’t know if she’d like that, though. The sides of his throat throb with a reminder of the importance of consent.

Her face darkens. “What does it matter? No one sees it.”

He runs his thumb over her larger hand. He doesn’t have a ready answer for the self-hatred he sees in her eyes. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll accept the phone if you wear your hand out - no wrappings - in the apartment for the rest of the day.”

She blinks, startled. “Okay,” she murmurs. Her fingers twitch under his. Raven would have a field day with this.

After a moment, she makes a soft sound and moves to stand, slowly removing her hands from his. “I’ll think of something to do with your old phone,” she says softly, swiping it from the coffee table and disappearing into the bedroom. Murphy allows himself three seconds to steady himself, then opens the four-person group chat that has been blowing up his new phone since Emori turned it on.

Raven and Miller are roasting each other and Bellamy is trying to mediate, but the bottom line is that Raven’s infamous fireworks show will be held tonight after dark in the old abandoned field through which the scenic highway cuts.

He can’t help but smile at the thought of showing Emori the fireworks. The subject had come up when one of those seasonal fireworks trailers had rolled into town. She had made a pyromaniac joke, and he had laughed. Then she told him she’d never seen a fireworks show.

“Kids in my old neighborhood used to run around with sparklers,” she had told him. “But they were expensive, and that was before O and I figured out the fastest way to boost and sell tech. Sometimes we couldn’t keep the regular lights on, let alone light up something else.”

He knows that Raven and Sinclair always put on a killer show. He’s counting on it this year. He wants to see her delighted smile again, the same one she gave him when he let her cook dinner for him. It had turned out to be a near-disaster, but it was worth it.

“John!” Emori calls his name from the bedroom. When he leans into the room, he sees her sticking her head out the open window. “What’s going on out there?”

Murphy sidles in next to her, his shoulder pressed against hers. Below them, near the end of the street, Lincoln’s ugly truck is backing into a neighbor’s driveway. Anya is sitting in the back shouting at him. Three other men are raising a pavilion on the other side of the cul-de-sac. The entire process is very loud, hampered by the wind whistling in from the mountains.

Every Fourth of July, the entire town turns out for a block party. Preparations like these start the day before: loud banging and rigging of tents and tables and chairs. Murphy forgot about the festivities and now, were it not for Emori’s watchful eye, he’d roll his eyes at the triteness of it all.

This town is not a nice town. Most citizens live below the poverty line. The schools were all poorly-run and small, taken over by a neighboring district with an actual mayor and city council. The main forms of crime were petty theft and gang holdups and those had only escalating in frequency as Murphy got older. He thinks it’s ludicrous that, for one day a year, they pretend as though everyone is one big happy freaking family.

It’s disgusting.

Emori looks at him as if she’s a curious child. “Can we go?”

“You could go by yourself, you know.” It comes out harsher than he intends. “I don’t need to babysit you.”

Her face falls, her brown eyes darkening. He loves those eyes, how expressive they are, even - and maybe especially - when she’s trying hard not to be. “That’s not- Sorry.” He ducks out of the window and rakes his hand through his hair. She turns to look at him over her shoulder. “We can go together, if you want. But you can go alone. You don’t have to wait for me.”

She frowns, brushing hair from her face, and pulls her head through the window, pulling the screen down but leaving the glass part open. A summer breeze blows through the room, hot and dry. “You’re the only one I know here.”

Murphy blinks at her. “You know everyone: Raven, Bellamy, all them.”

Emori shakes her head. “I don’t know them,” she stresses, eyebrows rising. “I know about them.”

Murphy wants to ask what the difference is, but he knows it’s probably not worth it. “I’ll go with you if you really want to.”

“I’ve never lived in a place like this before,” she says, almost to herself, backing up and leaning against the windowsill. “I lived in cities,” she explains. “Grew up in Baltimore, then lived in Boston, Philadelphia, Charlotte and D.C. Not in that order.” She smirks at him, and it feels like someone’s sticking a knife in his heart. “This is nice. In a new way.”

“I’m glad.” He gives her a smile and crosses the room to his dresser to get a change of clothes. Without really thinking, he shucks off his shirt and pulls on a new one. He feels Emori’s eyes on him as he moves. When she lets out a low hum, drawn from the base of her throat, he feels heat rush to his cheeks; when he looks back, her face is completely neutral, save for her blown pupils.

“What?” He isn’t trying to flirt, but he does want to know why she’s looking at him like that. “It’s not that great.”

Her mouth twists into a tiny smile while her eyes shamelessly look him up and down. “You’re cute when you’re modest.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He straightens his shirt, and asks, “So you and your brother stole computers in all those cities?”

She laughs, almost self-deprecatingly. “No, not only. Boosted cars and laptops, stole from dollar stores to eat, hell, Otan ran guns for six months before the fire.”

“The fire?” Murphy decides not to touch on the gun-running part. He remembers the story Emori told that involved Otan and a rocket launcher and decides he really doesn’t want to know.

She touched her left shoulder with her right hand. “The apartment we lived in had bad wiring. There was an electrical fire that burned Otan’s face. He was all scarred up afterward.” She pulls down the neckline of her shirt to reveal a raised scar, stark white against her dark skin. “I got this from backing into a livewire.”

He jumps up on the bed, crawling near the edge and kneeling so he can get a good look. She hasn’t tied her hair back yet and the loose strands, blowing in the wind from the window, tickle his cheek. The only scent she carries is the scent of his apartment and freshly-washed clothes. “It looks like lightning.” He touches it with one finger. Her skin is pleasantly warm.

She lets out a shaky sigh. He looks up and they’re face-to-face, so close he could press a kiss to her forehead if he leaned forward just the slightest. Her eyes flick down to his mouth, then back up to his face. Without thinking, he does the same, then mentally kicks himself when she draws away to adjust her collar.

“Anyway,” she mutters, obviously flustered, picking at the scar around her left wrist. “I should go get my wrap.”

“You promised!” he shouts after her. She shouts back a curse, but there’s a laugh in her voice. He counts it as a victory.

* * *

“Great, you're here,” is how Anya greets them when they reach the diner, her dry tone predictably void of happiness or sarcasm. Half the time, Murphy takes it on faith that she's not angry with him. Her stoicism makes him nervous; it reminds him of another place and time where one wrong move resulted in bottles broken near his head and verbal abuse screamed in his ear. But Anya isn't like that, at least not to his discernment.

She hands Emori her battered laptop while Murphy clocks in, and slides her something that looks like part of a hard drive. “Can you install this?”

Emori blinks at Anya, the computer and the drive. “Sure, but...why?”

Anya doesn't answer. Murphy gives Emori a shrug and smirk before ducking into the back where Octavia is bossing Monty and Miller around. 

“Thank God,” Octavia sighs when she sees Murphy. “Can you  _ please  _ be the cook now?”

“I hate tourists,” Miller grumbles as he walks past. Murphy looks out into the dining room and sees three families waiting for their food, plus a group of kids he recognizes from school digging into plates of fries. “They're so damn ignorant.”

“Happy summer,” Murphy snarks back, taking the orders from Octavia and getting to work. “Fourth of July is always a treat.”

Miller groans. “Don’t remind me!”

Between orders and cleaning, Murphy sneaks a peek at Emori, her brow furrowed as she bends over the laptop. She's not wearing much makeup today and the tattoo on her face is just as compelling as the first day he saw it. Beside her, Jasper braces his forearms on the counter and watches her work. Murphy doubts Jasper knows what’s going on, but his interest is sweet.

Compelling. There’s that word again. He hates Lexa for bringing it up, but it’s only because he knows she's right. That's exactly the word for Emori. She’s slowly eating him from the inside out and he can't take his eyes off of her, can't forget her no matter how hard he tries. 

He wants to talk to someone about how she makes him feel: terrified, adoring, lost, loved. But there isn't anyone that wouldn't laugh in his face for being such a sappy idiot. Well, Raven, maybe, but he's not sure he wants to risk it. 

He ends up risking it. Emori’s still nose-deep in the computer project Anya gave her, so Murphy takes his lunch and goes to sit beside Raven, who’s staring at her phone, a furrow between her brows. 

“What's up?” he asks casually, shoving his lunch in her general direction. She takes a bite of his fries and grimaces. 

“Why do you always eat these?”

He shrugs. “It’s tradition.” He takes a bite. “Why mess with a good thing?”

She flips her phone over, shaking her head slightly as she turns to him. “What's up, Murphy?”

He can’t believe he’s doing this, but Raven’s the only one he has. No way is he going to ask Bellamy for advice. “I have a problem. With Emori.”

Now she's paying attention, the vibrating phone forgotten beside her hand. “What did she do?”

“Nothing!” Murphy is instantly defensive. He hates his friends’ distaste for her. “It's me. I think I'm falling for her.”

Raven raises an eyebrow, her look of worry turning to an expression of delight. “No shit, Sherlock. We were all waiting for you to figure it out.”

Murphy shoves her with his shoulder. “Shut up.” And then, “help me. What do I do?”

Raven shrugs. “My last relationship went in the crapper. I don't have a clue how to help you.” 

Murphy sighs. “Raven.” His tone is almost pleading.

The bell near the door rings and Luna slips in, brushing her wild hair out of her eyes. She gives Raven a little smile, and Murphy can’t help but smirk when he sees Raven’s eyes light up. “See something you like?”

“Fuck off.” She kicks Murphy in the ankle with her good leg. “You want my advice? Just tell her.”

Murphy blinks. “What?”

“Neither of you are good at playing games. Just spit it out, or you’ll regret it later.”

Murphy turns around to look at Emori. As if she feels his gaze on her back, she turns to give her a smile and a wave.

Soon. He’ll tell her soon.

* * *

That night, after stuffing their faces with hot dogs and soda at the neighborhood block party, Murphy and Emori follow the rest of his friends to the fireworks show. Signs further down the highway they walk along boast a “scenic view of the Mount Weather range” but Murphy doubts there’s anything truly attractive about it. He thinks maybe he’s just desensitized to beautiful things. Then he looks over at Emori, sprawled out on the blanket they’re sharing for the night, and isn’t quite sure that’s the case.

Raven and her coworkers Sinclair and Wick are across the road, setting up fireworks for the annual display. Bellamy is sitting a little too close to Clarke Griffin, who Murphy rarely sees anywhere near his group of friends - and likes it that way, if he’s being honest. Monty, Harper and Jasper all share a blanket and Octavia is sitting in a circle of lawn chairs with Anya, Indra and Luna. Lexa sits near Miller and Bryan and joins in their jokes about Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane, who are snuggled together on a picnic blanket.

“You’re barely sitting on the blanket,” Emori grumbles, plopping down next to him and tugging on the sleeve of his jacket until he moves closer to her. Now she has a definite scent: smoke from the bonfire Monty’s mom had started in her backyard, a hint of gasoline, and something sweet he can’t identify. “You’ll stain your jeans with the grass.”

He can’t help but smile at her endearing desire to preserve his clothing. “I can always get new ones.” Nevertheless, he kicks at the cot that Bellamy had dropped off during the party and slowly moves to sit beside her.

She hums noncommittally and, before either of them have time to overthink, leans her head against his shoulder. He freezes, sure she can feel the blood go cold in his veins, then relaxes incrementally as he realizes this means as much to her as it does to him. He sees it in her ticking jaw, her clenched right hand. This was a continuance of what happened in his bedroom that morning, the irreversible push-and-pull between them. It was all part of a game that started on the couch in June when he had knotted his fingers gently in her hair and teased her. They had tested one another’s boundaries ever since, but this morning was the closest he had ever gotten to giving into all the feelings he had confessed to himself earlier in the diner.

He has the sudden urge to turn and press a kiss to the top of her head. He ignores that and does the next-best thing: wraps his arm around her shoulder and squeezes. It’s feeble, but he hopes it’s enough to convey  _ something _ . He wants her to feel safe with him. It’s been so long, he thinks, since either of them have felt safe with anyone.

In a fleeting moment of vulnerability, he considers telling her about Ontari. It might be counterproductive given his feelings for her, but at least she would know. All those thoughts are chased away by Emori’s gasp as Raven’s favorite blue fireworks signal the start of the show.

“I wasn’t planning on living long,” she says matter-of-factly as sparks rain down from the sky. “When you found me, I mean. But I figured if I was meant to live, there would be a sign.”

He doesn’t ask what brought this on. He’s learned over the past month that Emori’s entire train of thought rarely leaves her mouth. She only says what she thinks is important, which is one of her most endearing qualities.

She lifts her head from his shoulder and turns toward him. Her eyes reflect the light of the fireworks and the huge full moon. “You were it.” Before he can wrap his mind around the gravity of those three words, she leans forward, her chapped lips pressing to his cheek.

“Thank you for saving my life,” she whispers, then turns her face to the sky, one tear creeping from the corner of her eye to her ear. Murphy reaches up to wipe it away and realizes his hands are shaking.

They stop when she entwines her fingers with his.


	5. July: I Wanted to be Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya scoffs. “Look at him, Emori. Do you really think he would? Do you really think anyone would care?”
> 
> “I care,” she says under her breath.
> 
> “Take care of him,” Anya says softly. “He’s an idiot and he doesn’t eat well or sleep ever. But he started caring more when you came around.”
> 
> With that, she leaves. Emori is left staring at John, wondering just how much weight he’s had to carry all alone.
> 
> When he catches her staring, he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the errors are mine, all the genius editing is the work of my beta, **interlude**.

_ I wanted to take him home _

_ and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his _

_ like a crash test car. _

_ I wanted to be wanted and he was _

_ very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. _

* * *

Emori doesn’t think she’s ever felt more alive.

After Raven’s fireworks, she and John walk home together, carrying Bellamy’s cot between them. He’s a little drunk from the flask Jasper and Monty had passed around, but he’s an affectionate, sarcastic drunk and Emori finds it endearing in the simplest way.

Her lips still burn from when she pressed them to his cheek. She sneaks a look at him out of the corner of her eye but it does no good; she can’t tell if the flush in his cheeks is from the kiss or the alcohol.

Voices from the shadows turn her attention to the vacant storefronts they’re passing. She sees a group of men and women standing near a streetlight, dressed in dark clothes and carrying knives. So this town does have a seedy underbelly. She smiles to herself.  _ I knew it! _

“John Murphy.” His name, stated in a harsh female tone, makes John freeze. The color falls from his face. 

“ _ Shit.  _ Stay back, Emori.”

Emori blinks, hand moving to the pocket of the jacket she took from John’s closet, where a thin knife hides in the torn lining. “I’m the one with the weapon,” she hisses quietly. 

He ignores her, turns slowly, sets down the cot, and takes a half-step forward, shielding Emori from view. “Ontari, what do you want?” His voice trembles. It sounds like he's trying to sound exasperated, but he just sounds afraid. His eyes have gone dark. There’s something in his stance that reminds Emori of a cornered animal.

“Who’s this?” she asks, coming into view. She’s pretty - round-cheeked and dark-haired - but her razorblade smile makes Emori’s gut clench. When John doesn’t answer, she cocks her head at Emori. “Your girlfriend? Really?”

“None of your business,” Emori snaps. “Get out of the way. We’re going home.” She grabs the cot with her right hand and reaches for John’s hand with her left. Ontari catches sight of the glove and grabs her wrist.

“Get. The fuck. Away.” John all but growls, shoving Ontari, whose sole focus is now on Emori. He's angry now, rage boiling under his skin. Emori sees his hands balling into fists. They're still shaking. 

“ _ Frikdreina, _ ” Ontari sneers, and Emori sees red. She reaches for her knife and it’s only John’s quiet “Emori, _ please”  _ that makes her freeze.

She can feel Ontari’s eyes on them both as they walk away. John’s heart is hammering; Emori can feel his pulse against her fingers, which are wrapped securely around his wrist.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

He takes a shaky breath. “No. Not really.” He doesn’t say anything more. Emori doesn’t pry, but she does smile when he removes her hand from his wrist so he can hold it tightly.

“What does  _ frikdreina  _ mean?” he asks when they're a safe distance away. 

Emori sighs. “It's a word for people like me. With deformities.” She's not in the mood to explain its literal meaning. She wants John to explain why Ontari terrifies him so much. 

He doesn’t talk about Ontari or anything else until they’re home - is she allowed to call it that? - and attempting to unfold the ancient cot John had lugged back to the apartment. 

“I don’t think you’re putting that together right,” she laughs as John struggles to fit two slender metal poles together. “Let me try.”

He watches her for a moment before licking his lips and opening his mouth to speak. “She…” He sighs. “She’s the reason I don’t touch people.”

Emori frowns, not understanding. “I don’t-” John shifts on his knees and there’s something about the way he curls his body inwards that makes her realize. “Oh. John, I-”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand. “I don’t want pity.”

She leans forward, catching his eye and forcing him to look. “I wasn’t going to give it to you. I was just going to say that I understand.”

She steps over the cot and kneels beside him, running her hand over his arm. “You said it was different with me. Why?”

She doesn’t want her ego stroked - just to understand. She’d give him anything if it helped ease his pain. 

When he blinks up at her, his eyes are bright. “I don’t know. You just are.” His eyes flick down to her lips and a slow, warm feeling spreads through her gut and up to her cheeks. “There’s a lot of things about you that are different.” He reaches for her bad hand and works on unwrapping it. “And none of them are bad.”

The fierce urge to kiss him clamps down on her heart and throat, and she’ll be damned if she’s ever wanted something this  _ badly  _ before.

She rests her good hand on the side of his face and presses a light kiss to his cheek. “You’re not what she did to you,” she whispers. From the sigh he gives, she knows he doesn't believe her.

He turns to cup her face in his hands. “Lately, all I can think about is what it would be like to be with you.”

There’s a knot in her stomach that won’t go away, but it’s a pleasant knot - one of anticipation. Something is about to happen.

She realizes that, whatever it is, she wants it to happen just like this: in the dark, on his living room floor, the both of them wrapped in equal measures of insecurity and fear and want.

He lowers one hand from her cheeks so he can take her left hand in his. “I’m not good at this,” he says, giving her a self-deprecating smile.

Emori lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. “You don’t have to be.” She turns her cheek into his touch, kissing his palm lightly. The sharp intake of breath he gives in response is  _ so _ rewarding. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” she whispers against his skin, closing her eyes. There it is, the heaviest thing she’s ever said, hanging in the air.

“Emori.” Her name sounds like a prayer. “Why?”

She opens her eyes, sees his beautiful blue ones flooded with insecurity. “Because you’re you, idiot.” She bumps his hand with her nose affectionately. “Because you gave me a home. I’ve never had that before, not really. And you gave it to me without questions, without any expectations. You don’t care about what people say you are, and you don’t want me to, either.”

She swallows and blinks back the tears pricking at her eyes. “I feel safe with you,” she whispers, the final confession - the most damning, too.

He blinks, parts his lips and licks them. “I do too.” He lets out a laugh that’s more air than sound. “I’m scared of how you make me feel.”

“I would never hurt you,” she whispers, pouring every ounce of conviction into her voice. “You’ve been hurt enough.”

He shrugs. The hand on her cheek twitches. “To hurt is to know you’re alive.”

“How poetic.” She presses another kiss to his palm. “I still wouldn’t.”

He nods, then rises up off his heels so he’s leaning over her. His hand leaves her bad one to cup her cheek and his thumb brushes over her lips.

“Can I?”

She nods, her breath coming fast and uneven until he presses his lips to hers and everything goes eerily still and silent. She doesn’t know what he tastes like, couldn’t even tell you afterward, but his lips are gentle and his hands are careful and she could listen forever to the tiny gasp he lets out when she reaches up and slides her good fingers through his hair.

They share a first kiss, then a second and a third and a fourth, and they only break the fifth when John accidentally kicks the cot, sending a loud  _ clang  _ through the apartment. While John rakes a hand through his hair, giving sheepish apologies, Emori can’t help but let out a laugh.

“What?” He can’t seem to keep the grin off his face. “Am I that bad?”

“No!” She shakes her head, a smile stretching her cheeks. “No, that was perfect.”

John can’t seem to stop looking at her. “I don’t want to stop,” he admits quietly.

She stills. The breath in her lungs is ice cold. The warmth of want is heating her cheeks. “I don’t either,” she whispers. “But we should…” she frowns, trying to catch the thoughts racing through her head.

John leans forward, resting his forehead against hers, and pecks her on her nose, her cheeks, her chin until she laughs. “We should what, Mori?”

She swats him away,the tightness in her chest easing. She gets to her feet, flops down on the couch, and he follows, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I’m a shitty person, Mori. Really.” He says it as if he’s trying to warn her.

“I don’t care,” she murmurs, pressing her lips to his chastely. “I’m not so great myself. I’m not asking you to be anything other than who you are.”

“I know.” He opens his eyes and they’re soft, almost happy. “Hey, Emori?”

“Yeah?”

“Go on a date with me?” 

She throws her head back and laughs. She can’t help it. For the first time since Otan died, she feels a weight lifting from her shoulders. 

“Yes,” she says around a smile, kissing him again. “Yes, I will.”

* * *

She doesn't feel like it's real until they walk into the diner hand-in-hand, and the entire room goes wild.

“We thought you'd never do it!” Miller shouts above the applause, clapping John on the shoulder. From the booth in the corner, Raven gives them a thumbs-up and winks at Emori when John turns away to say something in Bellamy’s ear. 

“About damn time,” Octavia grouses good-naturedly, checking Lincoln with her hip until he moves aside to let her back behind the counter. “You two were grossing me out.”

“I think it's great,” Harper grins at them both. Jasper rolls his eyes and Monty casts a very peculiar look in Harper’s direction. 

“What's that about?” Emori asks Monty under her breath,  nodding toward Harper. 

Monty flushes. “Nothing!”

“She likes you,” Emori informs him. 

Monty gives her a dubious look. “How do you know?”

“I’m really good at reading people.” She won't tell him where or how she got that experience. Thankfully, he doesn't ask. 

Tourists filter in and out of the diner all day, mostly taking their food to go, but the core group of friends remain, chattering and laughing, soaking up the last month and a half of summer. Raven is getting a fair few compliments on her fireworks show, which she's soaking up while shooting  _ I told you so  _ looks at Bellamy, who, Emori guesses, had voiced reservations about the show.

She doesn’t know for sure. It just seems like a Bellamy thing to do. 

“Has he taken you out?” Octavia asks, cornering Emori when she hikes herself up on a stool at the front counter.

“Screw that!” Raven sits next to Emori, eyes bright. “I want to know if he’s laid her yet.”

“What?” Emori can feel her face turning red. “No! To both!”

Raven looks disappointed. Octavia is still grinning. “It’s gonna happen eventually,” she promises as if she knows something Emori doesn’t. “I see how he looks at you. If you ask me, that little leather corset thing you wear really does him in.”

Emori frowns, her right fingers ghosting over the offending garment. It was just something she found at a Salvation Army and kept because it was on just the right side of badass. She doesn’t think John liked it that much.

“So,” Anya starts, shoving Octavia aside and leaning against the counter. For someone who vehemently avoids all manner of town gossip, she seems surprisingly interested. “You and Murphy.”

Emori nods, trying not to smile. She’s been doing that a lot lately. If she concentrates, she can still feel his lips on hers.

“I’m surprised.” Raven stiffens. “After Ontari-”

Octavia clears her throat to interrupt Anya. Anya glares daggers at the younger Blake while Raven’s expression morphs from vague concern to rage.

“What did she do?” Emori asks Anya as Raven opens her mouth, probably to tell Anya to shut up. “To John, I mean.”

“She fucked him up,” Raven says, shooting Anya a warning glare.

“By fucking him,” Anya clarifies, and Emori feels herself flinch. A frown creases Anya’s brow. “You didn’t know?”

Emori shakes her head. “No, I knew. Just...he didn’t say it like that.”

Now Raven looks sickened and outraged. “Of course he wouldn’t! It’s humiliating and disgusting. And you,” here she stabs an accusatory finger in Anya’s direction, “shouldn’t have said anything!”

Anya doesn’t look apologetic, just a bit wary of Raven’s anger. “If we don’t talk about it, it won’t be dealt with.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with it,” Raven snaps back, sliding from her stool and stalking away from them. “Maybe that’s the way he wants it.”

Octavia gives a nonchalant shrug and ducks into the back. Anya lets out a long sigh. “It’s a damn shame,” she mutters. “Ontari never had to answer for it.”

“John didn’t report it?”

Anya scoffs. “Look at him, Emori. Do you really think he would? Do you really think anyone would care?”

“I care,” she says under her breath.

“I know.” For a moment, Anya seems sad. Emori knows she worries about the kids she employs, but she rarely shows it. But now, as they both turn to regard John, who’s leaning against the counter, easy and effortless as he messes around with Miller and Jasper, the concern is shared between them.

“Take care of him,” Anya says softly. “He’s an idiot and he doesn’t eat well or sleep ever. But he started caring more when you came around.”

With that, she leaves. Emori is left staring at John, wondering just how much weight he’s had to carry all alone.

When he catches her staring, he smiles.

* * *

After dinner, which they eat at home for a change, Emori goes alone to find Ontari under the guise of going for a walk.

She’s alone this time, sitting under a streetlight, her feet in the gutter, her hands wrapped around a knife. Emori doesn’t know what her plan is; she had one at one point, but she gets a little angrier and a little more irrational with every step she takes.

“Oh look,” Ontari sneers when Emori approaches. “It’s John’s little bitch.”

“Don’t call him that.” Emori can handle the insult. She can’t handle hearing John’s name in Ontari’s mouth.

Ontari ignores her. “Did he send you to fight his battles for him?” She rolls her eyes. “Adorable.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.” She tilts her chin up. Her bad hand rests on the knife at her belt. “This is between us.”

“What is?” Ontari’s eyes roam over her.

Emori takes three quick steps until they’re eye to eye. Ontari barely flinches. “Leave him alone, you  _ rapist _ .” She spits the last word, rewarded when Ontari blanches. “That’s right; I know what you did to him. And if you  _ ever  _ come near him again, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you do.”

She draws her bad hand back, curls it into as much of a fist as she can, and rams it hard into Ontari’s gut, following that strike with a knee to her face. Ontari goes down hard, a wheezing breath pulled from her lungs as she hits the pavement.

Emori stares at her for a long moment. She could do it, could drive her heel into the other woman’s head. Emori knows how to kill a man. She’s done it before.

But she can’t make herself. She knows what would be waiting on the other side of that death, and the guilt and shame isn’t soft enough to lure her this time. So she walks away, wiping non-existent blood from her hands.

When she gets home, she can tell John knows where she’s been.

“Why?” He asks as she wedges herself beside him on the couch. He turns the volume on his laptop down.

“Because I’m tired of her hurting you.”

“She didn’t do anything,” John counters.

“She doesn’t have to be here to hurt you,” is all she says. John looks at her for a moment, then turns to press a kiss to her shoulder.

“Don’t do it again,” is all he says before turning back to his computer. Emori puts her head down on his chest and watches a movie with him.

She sleeps in his room that night. He finally put together the cot and told her that he was sleeping on it, like it or not, so she could have the bed. She wasn’t going to argue, not after how firm he was, and besides, the couch was giving her a serious back ache.

She feels a strange knot in her stomach as she curls beneath his covers. They’re threadbare, but still soft, and they smell like him in a comforting way. Still, it takes a while for her to fall asleep, and when she does, she dreams.

_ The knife is on her skin, the blade tracing over her collarbones, her shoulders, her arms. It falls to her bad hand, the scar around it, and rests there.  _

_ Three cuts, one after another, fall on her skin. The pain washes over her frayed nerves, and she lets out a pained cry. Beside her, Otan struggles. _

_ “Leave her alone,” he spits. Baylis cracks him across the face in response. “You’re pissed at me, not her.” _

_ “Obviously you don’t care enough about yourself,” Baylis replies. The knife trails over her stomach to her sternum and she feels bile rising in her throat. “Hopefully you care more about her than the tech you stole.” _

_ “Fuck you,” Otan spits, voice unreadable. Emori looks up at Baylis, then over to her brother. _

_ “Don’t hurt him,” she grinds out between bared teeth. _

_ The serrated blade presses on her chest. She freezes, flinching at the cold metal. Baylis looks her up and down, eyes dark, almost hungry. The knife twists at her chest, slashing her shirt halfway down the middle. _

_ “Time to pay up.” _

“NO!” She bolts upright, slamming her head against the headboard in her haste to scramble away from - what? Nothing. The room is pitch-black and she can’t see, can’t remember where she is, and the blankets are stifling her, and there’s tears on her cheeks and the air in the room isn’t enough.

“Emori?” John’s voice is outside the door. He pushes the door open and turns on the lamp standing in the corner. It casts an ugly, yellow glow over the room. “Emori, what happened?”

She can’t breathe; her chest hurts and she swears she feels blood trickling down between her breasts, onto her stomach. “John,” she gasps, reaching for him blindly, needing to feel something that tethers her to reality.

He grabs her hand and climbs up onto the bed, pulling her halfway onto his lap, cradling her to his chest. She can feel his heartbeat under her ear, slightly uneven and loud. “Hey, it’s okay. Breathe,” he instructs her as she gulps down air and tries not to sob. “Tell me everything.”

She wants to. She also doesn’t want to think about it. “Tell me something good,” she whispers, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

“What?”

She swallows. “I need something else to think about.”

“Okay.” He rubs circles on her shoulder with his thumb. “I don’t know if it’s good but...I found somewhere I want to take you for our first date.”

“Oh?” Emori’s voice is feeble, but she manages to strengthen it with a subtle clearing of her throat. 

He rests his chin atop her head. “Yeah. There’s a scenic overlook about an hour down the road and Raven told me there’s a tiny restaurant there, too. She said it’s like the diner, but better.” He laughs. “I know the dinner date thing is cliche and lame, but the sunsets are killer.” 

“We used to go down there a lot last summer,” he continues. “Costia had an old-fashioned instant-print Polaroid and would take pictures of us until she ran out of light to develop them. Bellamy and Clarke Griffin would sneak off to “talk” near this old bridge that collapsed over the winter.” He laughs. “They were so disgustingly inevitable, making eyes at each other all the time.”

Emori chuckles. She feels safer now, but now she’s drained and her head aches and she just wants to sleep without nightmares for once. She knows what she wants, but she’s afraid to ask.

John has gone quiet. When she lifts her head, she sees him looking down at her with concern etched all over his face. “Want to talk about it?” 

Emori sits up, scooting off his lap and sitting cross-legged beside him. “I just want some peace for once,” she mutters, running her good hand through the tangles in her hair. She must look awful, she realizes, and is glad that John has no mirrors in his room.

He scoffs. “I think peace is overrated.” He puts his hand on the side of her face and wipes the last of her tears away with his thumb. “It’s the fighters that survive.”

“I’m not a fighter,” she says. “I’m a coward.”

“I’ve met cowards.” He leans forward, pecks her on the lips, quick and sweet. “You’re not one of them.”

She smiles tiredly. “Can...could you stay?” She feels ashamed for asking, guilty for wanting this. “Just until I fall asleep?”

John seems to understand. “Hold on,” he murmurs, getting up to retrieve his phone from the other room and turn off the lamp. “Jasper sends us dumb Vines all the time. C’mere.”

She lies beside him and watches the seven-second videos on John’s phone, smiling when she feels him laugh. It’s little more than a rumble through his chest, but she likes it. She likes everything about him.

* * *

The next day, she walks to the diner halfway through John’s shift and convinces him to hand over the keys to his car.

“Should I ask why?” He eyes her warily, watching her pocket his keychain.

She gives him a smirk. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“What  _ are _ you doing?” Clarke asks her, leaning out of her booth to catch Emori’s attention. She's sitting near the door, face turned to the window to catch the afternoon sun. 

“Getting something to wear for our date,” Emori whispers back, hoping John won’t hear.

Clarke’s eyes light up. “I’ll come with you!”

Emori looks at her incredulously. “Really?”

Clarke nods, packing up her sketchbook. “Come on. It'll be fun.”

Emori shrugs, stepping aside to let Clarke out of her booth. She figures it’s best to pick her battles, and Clarke isn’t one of the good ones. “Fine. Why not?”

The two of them take John’s less-than-stable car out to a neighboring town, one big enough to have a strip mall that masquerades as a fine shopping and dining spot. Before Clarke can get out of the car, Emori slams the door locks down.

“I don’t want anything fancy or new,” she says firmly. “I want long sleeves, long enough to cover this,” she holds up her bad hand, “and I want something that John will think is pretty.” She manages to say the last part without blushing.

Clarke blinks and nods. “Okay. Deal.” A tiny frown creases her brow. Emori pretends not to notice.

They go into a tiny secondhand store. Clarke flips through the racks with determination while Emori wanders the aisles in aimless curiosity. She touches a soft green jacket with a red spikey patch on the shoulder and picks it up.

“That’s not...exactly what we’re looking for,” Clarke says hesitantly when Emori approaches her, jacket over her shoulders and smile on her face.

“It’s for John,” she explains. “He’ll like it.”

Clarke laughs under her breath. “I know he will.” She pulls something out from a crowded rack. “What about this?”

It's a black dress with long sleeves that bell out at the cuffs and skirt that falls almost to the ground. There's nothing remarkable about it - in fact, Emori is certain that most people would find it ugly. 

She loves it. And when she tries it on, it's clear that Clarke likes it too. She buys it and the jacket and brings them both home, hiding them under the couch so John doesn't see them. 

When he gets home, he gives her a kiss hello. She's in the kitchen trying to make dinner and is caught off-guard, but quickly relaxes into his lips and tongue and arms. “Hey there,” she murmurs when they break apart. 

He lets out a small laugh, leaning his forehead against hers. “Hi.” His smile, his closed eyes make her feel warm from the inside out. “How was your day?”

She nips at his lips, tasting dry skin and Coke. “It was okay. How was yours?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he admits and she feels her cheeks flush. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day.”

Emori laughs. “So kiss me.”

He does; it’s heavy and wanting and leaves her breathless. “Yes," she whispers, and he slants his mouth against hers again, before either of them have time to overthink things. She bites his lip by mistake, then smiles when he groans. His hands are careful against her shoulders, the small of her back, but he's pressing her closer and then he's crushing them together, walking her back until she collides gently with the pantry door.

"John," she whispers against his shoulder, following his arm as he guides her legs up around his waist, rocks into her once before he remembers himself and sucks a light bruise into her collarbone as an apology.

"It's okay." She presses her hips up into his. He lets out an honest-to-God moan and she can't help but laugh. “But you should put me down. Dinner’s going to burn.”

He releases her obediently before turning to the stove. “What are we having?”

“Stew meat and vegetables,” she says, swatting his hand away when he goes to stir the contents of the pan. “That’s my job. You can set the table if you want to be helpful.”

She watches him while he does so. His cheeks are red and his eyes are slightly glassy. Her own face burns when she remembers the sound he made, the press of his hips into her. She feels her hand tighten on the spoon in response, then blows out a long breath to force herself to calm down.

The beans are slightly burned, but the meat is cooked through and John says he likes it. Emori doesn’t think he’s lying, which makes her unbelievably happy.

“I was thinking,” he says around a mouthful, “that we could go on our date tomorrow. Sound good?”

Emori nods, taking a sip of water. When she looks up from her plate, she notices John staring at her. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He reaches for her hand, gives it a squeeze. “Just can’t believe I have you.”

“I can’t believe it either,” is all she says, though she wants to tell him more about how safe he makes her feel, how loved and protected. There will be time for that later; at least, she hopes so.

They eat their dinner in silence. She has never felt more content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading! Please let me know what, if anything, you liked about this!
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of putting together a Little Beast playlist - is there anyone out there who would be interested in that? Any song recommendations?


	6. August: Eyes that Remained Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t believe me?” Her voice rises suddenly; she’s angry now, he guesses, now that she’s had enough time to process what happened on the bridge.
> 
> “Let me tell you a story, John.” She takes a step toward him, then another and another until he’s sitting on the arm of the couch and she’s standing over him, eyes hard, hands shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a happy chapter lol sorry in advance

_ It wasn’t until we were well past the middle of it _ _   
_ _ that we realized _ _   
_ _ the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers, _ _   
_ _ far from being subverted, _ _   
_ __ had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.

_ Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us, _ _   
_ _ replete with the tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes _ _   
_ _ and not the doorways we had hoped for. _ __   
  


* * *

Murphy can’t remember the last time he has been this anxious. As he paces the diner floor during the downtime of his shift, he has to make a conscious effort not to blush or rub his sweaty palms against his jeans. Those are two obvious tells that he’s nervous, and everyone on shift today is too observant for his taste.

The date is more of a symbolic action than anything else, he reassures himself. They’d been living together since June, after all, so there’s really no need to keep up a pretense or act like anything other than his shitty self.

Then again, she doesn’t seem to think he’s that bad. That’s part of what blows his mind. Everyone he knows, including Raven, might disagree. Then again, they don’t know her the same way he does. Emori has a way of pulling empathy out of him that he still can’t understand.

“You good?” Lincoln asks quietly as he reaches over the stove to grab a box of chips. “You’ve been lost in thought all day.”

“Yeah,” Murphy says, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About Emori?”

Murphy snorts. “That obvious?”

Lincoln gives him a smile that’s almost proud. “Only to the observant.”

“Meaning that I pointed it out to Lincoln,” Luna interjects, whacking Lincoln on the arm with the ledger as she exits the office. “He couldn’t discern his way out of a paper bag.”

“Ouch.” Lincoln shakes his head ruefully. “She just attacked my whole life.”

Murphy laughs under his breath, trying not to think about how that’s something Emori would say. Everything circles back to her these days, and the only reason it bothers him is because he’s sick of being such a sap that even Monty can get an easy rise out of him.

“Is she coming in today?” Anya asks, apparently having heard the entire exchange from the back near the refrigerators. “She’s usually wherever you are. It’s kinda cute. Or depressing,” she adds as an afterthought.

“I asked her to stay home today.” Murphy jabs at the burgers on the grill with a metal spatula. The scraping sound it makes is rewarding. “I want to actually pick her up and shit. Like a real date.”

“Language!” Jasper shouts over the counter. Monty laughs. Murphy rolls his eyes.

“It’s my kitchen and I’ll swear if I want to,” he retorts.

“Actually,” Anya corrects, “it’s my kitchen. And watch your language; there are kids in here.”

Murphy looks out into the dining room, where two families with young kids in booster seats chat amongst themselves and peer out the windows. “Sorry,” he grumbles, turning back to the food he’s supposed to be making for them and his friends, who are apparently bottomless pits when it comes to unhealthy food. It’s going to be a busy day today, and he’s only two hours into an eight hour shift.

Oh, well. At least it will keep his mind off Emori. He hasn’t thought about her this much since he realized he was in love with her. It’s not that she wasn’t memorable or important to him, it’s that she’s managed to weave herself into his life so effortlessly. He can’t remember what it was like before her. He likes it, but he’ll never admit it. The second he gets attached is the second everything goes to hell.

When he goes on his lunch break, he shuts himself in the office and opens his phone to find three new texts from Emori. He still feels warm every time he powers on the phone she gave him; it’s the nicest thing he’s owned in a long time, even if it was stolen.

_ Hey,  _ the first text reads,  _ where do you keep your mixing bowl? And spices? I don’t want to mess up your stuff but I’m trying to be useful. And I’m bored. _

The second text came in an hour later.  _ Update: found them. I didn’t burn the place down. Going for a run now. Be back in an hour. _

_ Back _ , said the third text, which had come in a couple minutes before Murphy’s break started. He starts to draft a reply, then decides to just call instead. Texting frustrates her since she only has one usable hand.

“Hi, John!” She sounds happy to hear from him. Another thing he’s not used to. “Are you on your break?”

“Yeah.” He blinks hard, tries not to sound so dead inside. “It’s busy today. Everyone and their weekend-warrior mother is out on the roads.”

Emori laughs. It’s low and warm and makes butterflies explode in his stomach. “Can’t say I wish I was there.” A pause, then, “are you excited for tonight?”

He nods. “It’s all I can think about,” he admits quietly.

He can hear the smile in her voice. “Me too.”

“Oh, and I saw the jacket you left for me.” He looks at the rack in the corner of the office, where an army-green jacket with a peculiar red shoulder patch hangs. It’s unique and a little weird, but it fits well and reminds him of Emori. She had folded it neatly and left it near the cot while he was asleep, along with a note that said  _ just because _ . “I really like it.”

“I’m glad.” She laughs. “Clarke thought I was crazy to buy it, but it made me think of you.”

“What were you doing, shopping with Clarke?”

He can hear the mischievous smirk in Emori’s voice. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Uh oh.” He waves at Luna when she lets herself in to sit at the desk. “Am I going to like this.”

“Probably.” The uncertainty in her voice worries him, but he knows she’ll just dodge if she asks. “You’re still picking me up at five, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’m ringing the doorbell and everything.”

“You’re cute, John. I’ll see you then.” She hangs up, and Murphy allows himself the barest of smiles, knowing that only Luna is in the room to judge him.

“You really like her,” Luna notes, not even looking up from the receipts spread over the desk.

“I don’t deserve her,” he retorts. “She doesn’t know about the shit I’ve done.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Did you tell Raven? About what you are? What you’ve done?” he asks. Luna flinches. The old familiar hatefulness fills him again. “I’m gonna take that as a no.”

“There’s no reason to.” Her voice is even, deadly calm. If Murphy didn’t know better, he’d assume she was unbothered by his comments. But he does know better, and he knows that he has just pushed on a very dangerous boundary.

“The darkness inside of me is different than what’s inside of you,” she finally says, looking at him. “You could change. Choose to be better.”

Murphy snorts. “The darkness can kiss my worthless ass.” He stands up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “What Emori knows won’t hurt her.”

“Until she finds out,” is all Luna says as the door swings shut. The thought does nothing but make Murphy’s blood run cold.

* * *

It’s a little weird ringing his own doorbell, but Murphy doesn’t mind. He brought a change of clothes to the diner and had changed after his shift, reappearing in a clean button-down and the only pair of slacks he owns. Raven and Bellamy had wolf-whistled mockingly. All Anya had done was tell him to fix his collar, but he wasn’t trying to impress them anyway, so what did it matter.

Realistically, he knows it won’t really impress Emori either. She doesn’t seem to care what he wears or how he looks, which is a relief because he usually dresses like a hot mess. But his father had prepared him for dating, and told him to always look his best when taking a girl out. The lesson is still at the front of his mind.

When Emori pulls open the door, he plans to say something, but all words fail him as he regards her. She’s in a dress. An honest-to-God dress. Murphy doesn’t know how to react. It’s plain and black, sleeves covering her big hand and a long skirt covering her boots. On anyone else, it would be ugly, but it fits her, somehow; it’s just as interesting as she is when she tries. Makeup covers the tattoo on her face – Murphy’s almost disappointed by that, but he knows she’ll be more comfortable so it’s okay – and her hair is down, falling haphazard over her shoulders and down her back.

Murphy wants to kiss her. He doesn’t, but he does close his mouth and bring his eyes back up to her face. She’s wearing an uncertain expression, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Hey.” he tilts her chin up so she looks at him. “You look beautiful.”

She smiles slightly, her small hand fisting in her skirt. “I wanted to try something new. Do you really like it?”

He nods, taking both her hands in his. The smooth fabric of the dress glides right over her left hand. “Hell yeah.”

She exhales a breath he’s sure she’s been holding. “Good.” Then she looks him up and down - just like she had that day in his bedroom. Heat flares through him, and he briefly wonders what else the hands he holds are good for. “You look nice too,” she tells him, getting on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I didn’t know you owned nice clothes.”

“You mean you didn’t go through my drawers while I was gone?” he asks, teasingly. “I figured you would have.”

She laughs, and the tension between them dissipates. He takes her down to his car, remembers to get the door for her, and they spend the drive to the restaurant in near-silence, listening to the radio, their hands resting atop one another.

“So,” he starts after they’ve placed their orders. He had ordered for both of them, telling her to trust him. She did, surprisingly. That’s a habit she’ll have to break. “What did you need spices for?”

Emori fiddles with the fork at her place setting. “I found your recipe books. I wanted to try making something.”

Murphy frowns. “What recipe books?”

“The ones in your hall closet.” She takes a sip of water. They’re sitting outside, their table lit up by flickering lights strung above their heads. She looks ethereal in the glow.

“Oh.” Murphy remembers those now, remembers when he shoved them in there since it’s the last place he’d ever go. “You shouldn’t have been in there.”

Now it’s her turn to frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine.” He tries to keep anger from his voice.  _ It’s not her fault. She didn’t know. Calm down, Murphy.  _ “Did you make anything decent?”

She shrugs, obviously still perturbed that she accidentally invaded his privacy. “I think so. You’ll have to taste it and tell me. I don’t really know what I’m doing in the kitchen, but I wanted to do something to help.”

He reaches out, takes her small hand in his. To their left, the older couple at the bar gives them soft, reminiscing looks. “You don’t have to do anything. I like having you around; you don’t owe me anything.”

“I know, but it’s not right.” She runs her thumb over his knuckles. “I don’t feel like I’m your guest, not since…”

“Since we’re together?” he finishes. When she nods, he feels equal parts fear and happiness shoot through him. “I get it. If this becomes a long-term thing, then we’ll split things up, okay?”

She nods. “Deal.”

Neither of them knows how to do this. It becomes increasingly apparent to him that she’s unused to men treating her with respect, and he knows it’s obvious that he’s horrible at carrying on a conversation without negativity or swearing. He knows she wants to ask about the cookbooks, about his angry reaction, and maybe she will when they get home.

He’s beginning to wonder if this is a bad idea, if he needs to pull the plug  on this, and ask her to leave before he falls so deep he can't pull himself out when she finally breaks his heart or leaves . He’s not an idiot – it will happen. Nothing good can stay. Not in his life. Besides, he knows she’s a conwoman and that she’s lived all over the eastern seaboard. How many guys has she done this to? Maybe their entire life together – can he call it that? – has been a lie.

He does believe her brother is dead. The nightmares are too intense, too frightening to be fabricated. But everything else could be an act. Is he paranoid? Maybe, but he’s had too many losses and betrayals to be anything less than wary.

Still, he thinks, looking over the table at her and smiling at her when she grins at him, while he has her, he’s going to try to deserve her. And when she leaves because she’s found another place or gotten bored of him, he’ll try to pick up the pieces.

* * *

“See, what did I tell you?” They’re standing on the old bridge overlooking the gap between the two mountains that make up most of the Blue Ridge range. The sun is setting in the space between them, turning the sky into a mess of orange, red and pink.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, resting her head against his shoulder. Without really thinking, he presses a kiss to her hairline, ignoring the voice in his head that’s only growing louder in its insistence that this is a lie. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He says nothing. She twists her head to look up at him. “So.” Her voice is light, teasing. “Will there be a second date?”

Murphy tightens his grip on the bridge railing. “I don’t know. Depends on how long you’re going to stay.”

Emori lifts her head and frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

Murphy sighs. “Never mind. I’m being stupid.”

“No, John.” Her voice takes a hard edge, a defensive edge. He’s never heard her like this. It makes him nervous. “What did you mean by that?”

“Just that if this is a con, it’s a damn good one.”

She thumps her big hand on the railing. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you that,” she exclaims. “John, I’m not lying to you. I want this; I want  _ us _ . I want your life, and I want you.”

“For how long?” The  f ear is welling up in him again, and he lets it sit in his gut, fueling his anger and harsh words . “How long until you get bored of me, bored of Virginia, and move onto the next city? The next man?”

“What?” She’s angry too, now, and incredulous. Her eyes are bright and her hair whips in the sudden wind coming in from the hills. Above them, a bird cries. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, John.”

“Then explain it to me,” he counters, “because I don’t know a damn thing about you. Not really.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice is close to breaking. The sick, selfish, broken thing in him is satisfied. “You know all the important things.”

“That’s not good enough!” His voice is loud enough to echo back to them. “Why are you here, really? What do you want? I think you’re here for a reason; I just don’t know what it is yet.”

“It’s you!” she cries, shoving her hair out of her face. “I came with you because I trust you! When you found me by the sea, I was trying to figure out a way to get back to you - to find you again.”

“You barely knew me,” he argues, not daring to consider that the thought of him had followed her for that long. “Why?”

“Because you trusted me!” she yells. “You let me stay in the diner with you, let me help you close and drove me home even though you barely knew me. You talked to me; you actually  _ liked  _ me. That never happens!”

“So you based everything on coming back to a shitty town to find one shitty person you didn’t even know?” He laughs. It’s cruel, mean. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Maybe…” her voice goes soft, her face turning vulnerable. “Maybe I felt safe with you. Maybe I knew that something bad was following us and maybe I would have liked to stay in your car for a little longer that night.”

Murphy stops at that, his anger dying when he looks at her,  _ really  _ looks, and sees her rounded shoulders and glassy eyes. “I don’t know why you’re doubting me,” she all but whispers, “and I can’t control what you think. But I want this. I want you. And I’m not leaving you anytime soon.”

He knows he should apologize, maybe take her hand or hug her. But he can’t make himself. The sting of a future betrayal still weighs on him. “Let’s go home,” is all he says, turning his back on her, knowing that she’ll follow him.

The drive back is quiet and miserable. Emori doesn’t speak until they walk through the door.

“I think you should take your room back,” she says quietly, not looking at him as she pours herself a glass of water. It feels like a rejection. Maybe she meant it that way.

“Emori…” He can’t make himself apologize. Why should he, when she should hurry up and admit that she’s using him for something that isn’t entirely honest? Nothing about her is honest - nothing that he can trust anyway.

“You don’t believe me?” Her voice rises suddenly; she’s angry now, he guesses, now that she’s had enough time to process what happened on the bridge. “Let me tell you a story, John.” She takes a step toward him, then another and another until he’s sitting on the arm of the couch and she’s standing over him, eyes hard, hands shaking.

“When I walked in my front door after you dropped me off, I had a gun to my head. My brother was on the ground, either out cold or just faking, and I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Apparently he had stolen tech from a very angry gang and a very angry supplier, and they wanted it back. Of course, Otan had already sold it, so there was nothing else they could do except make us pay up. We were locked in a warehouse for  _ months _ . Sometimes they left us alone. Sometimes they didn’t. Otan smuggled tech for them a few times, but I couldn’t go with him.” She laughs bitterly. “I guess they knew my reputation for running.”

He tries to say something, but she cuts him off. “Don’t. Don’t even think about it.”

“Emori-“

“Shut up.” She runs her hand through her hair. “After a few weeks of this, the guy that took us in when we were young and taught us how to strip and trade tech showed up. Surprise, surprise. Apparently he worked with those guys now and wasn’t even a little shocked to hear that Otan had stolen from him. But he didn’t believe that Otan acted alone, even though I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on and was scared to death. So, since Otan couldn’t cough up the tech, he set about making my life a living hell.”

She’s speaking through gritted teeth now, her eyes flashing, her hands balled into fists. Murphy is both captivated and terrified. “When they killed Otan – put a bullet through his brain, by the way, so at least it was quick – they just left me, dumped me by the ocean. I’m sure they figured I’d drown in high tide or some unsuspecting surfer would find me. I ended up in the hospital somehow and had to let them shove my knee back in place. I drew the line at any other tests, and then I ran away when the night guard got lazy.”

“So yes, John, I wanted to go back to Virginia. Because the only person who had shown me any kindness was there, and because I didn’t know where else to go. Even if I hadn’t found you, at least I knew there was somewhere I could hide.”

She rocks back on her heels, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and it’s only then that Murphy realizes she’s crying, silent tears rolling over her cheeks and down to her lips. It’s more than she’s ever told him before, and he senses that there’s more that will come out, but right now he’s killing himself over the fact that the only way he could convince her to be vulnerable was to make her angry enough to spill her guts.

He waits too long. She turns on her heel, walks silently into the bathroom, and shuts the door. He can hear her sob once, then again, before the water starts running. She comes out a minute later, face and the ends of her hair damp, and gives him an unreadable look.

“I want you to trust me, John.” Her voice is almost broken. “But if you can’t, maybe it’s better for both of us if I go.”

“Don’t,” he chokes out, finally moving, lurching forward and upward, rocketing to his feet and nearly startling her in the process. “I was a dick, Emori. I freaked out because it seems too real now, you and me, and I didn’t think about it, about how much it would hurt if you left, if you really weren’t in this for good. I was selfish, and I’m sorry.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “I want you to stay. I want you to stay for a long time.”

She regards him distrustfully, as if he’s a poisonous snake and she’s trying to decide whether or not he’ll strike. Finally, after a long breathless minute, she takes his hand, weaving her smaller fingers through his. “I have to trust you, too,” she whispers, eyes turned downward. “I was scared to sleep every night for a week even though I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t know if I’m even capable of loving someone the way you deserve.”

The room is growing dark; they had forgotten to turn on the lights when they came home. He turns on the floor lamp now, and the glow casts an eerie sheen over Emori’s face. In her black dress, she looks like a spirit. “I’m gonna choose to see your fear of me hurting you as a good sign,” she says. “It means you’re letting me in. And I like that.”

“And John?” She asks, stepping close, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I have never lied to you. That's something I can't say to anyone else.”


	7. August: Running Out of Lullabies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to do this,” John murmurs behind her. She doesn’t turn to look at him. “We can come back another day.”
> 
> She shakes her head. Before she is anything else, she is stubborn as hell, especially when it comes to her loyalty. “I have to say goodbye,” she whispers, feeling a tear fall from her eye and roll to the tip of her nose. If anyone asks, it’s really rain.
> 
> “Okay.” John unbuckles his seatbelt. She hears his door slam, then sees him walk around toward her. He kneels in front of her and takes her hands. “I’m going to be right there. You’re going to be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy/sad chapter this time. Endless thanks to [interlude](http://bombshellsandbluebells.tumblr.com) for her editing, especially two chapters in a row!

Emori goes to the diner without John.

She can count on one hand the amount of times she’s visited the diner alone, but the one that comes most readily to mind is the first time - the time she met John, when she started falling in love without realizing it.

This morning, the sky is overcast and dark, the wind heavy and sticky with the promise of rain. John was still asleep when she crept out of her? his? room and she left him there, limbs askew and blanket halfway off his torso. She’s not sure if she wants to get coffee for them both and bring it home, or if she wants to stay in a booth for the majority of the day, safe among the red vinyl and the chatter of her friends.

Except they’re not her friends, and John will wonder where she went, and she can’t avoid her bitter words from last night forever. Just thinking about her rant makes her cheeks heat and gut clench in humiliation. She doesn’t want to face this, but she will. It’s what she should do, and it’s what they both deserve.

She’s never been good at doing what she’s supposed to do. It’s something new she’s trying, like being soft - like being honest.

_ John doesn’t think you’re honest _ , the bitter voice in her head whispers.

“I know,” she mutters to the ground, quickening her steps as the first drops of rain hit the top of her head. It hurts to know that, but it’s better this way. The greatest fears, the biggest lies, always have a grain of truth. It’s what makes a con based off them so powerful. Emori’s sure that his mistrust of her was the truth in his angry outburst.

She reaches the diner just before the deluge starts. Anya and Bellamy are behind the counter; Bellamy’s cleaning the coffee press, and Anya is either mopping the floor or tracking dirt around, depending on how mindful she feels like being. Emori likes her, likes how straightforward and no-nonsense she is. It’s trustworthy in a strange way.

There’s that word again. Trust.

“Coffee?” Anya asks, lifting her eyes to meet Emori’s. “Shit, kid, what happened?”

Emori frowns. “What?”

“You look like hell. Sit down.” She points to a bar stool, and Emori sits obediently, confused. She had cried herself to sleep last night but had no idea it followed her into the morning. When Anya hands her a shiny silver napkin dispenser, she sees her puffy skin and swollen eyes, and winces.

“What happened?” Anya asks again. Emori sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Did you and Murphy fight?”

Emori hesitates, then nods. “He thinks I’m lying to him.”

“About what?”

“Everything. Well, everything about us.” She takes a grateful sip of coffee from the mug Bellamy pushes toward her. “He thinks I’m just using him for something.”

Anya leans forward, bracing her forearms on the counter. “Are you?” She asks it like she already knows the answer. Emori wonders if she does, if Anya’s answer is the same as the truth.

Emori shakes her head, her hair falling around her shoulders. She usually ties it half-back but forgot this morning. She’s beginning to see why Anya discerned that something was wrong.

“No,” she says quietly. It might be her imagination, but she thinks she hears Bellamy heave a quiet sigh of relief. “I could never.”

“Okay then.” Anya pushes herself off the counter and pulls a hair tie from her wrist, wrapping it around her long hair with a few sharp twists. She’s wearing a red and blue flannel and black jeans; she looks rugged and at ease in the stormy day and quiet diner.

Emori wants to be like her: confident, harsh, hard. She doubts that Anya has ever been hurt like this, has ever cried herself to sleep. She envies the older woman.

“He’ll come around,” Bellamy tells her when Anya goes into the office. “Murphy does this, you know? He freaks out whenever someone gets too close and tries to push them away. I give him less than a day before he comes back to you.”

Emori isn’t sure about that. “You didn’t hear him,” she nearly whispers. “He hates the idea of me.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “He hates the idea of losing you. There’s a difference.”

Emori waits until Bellamy drifts away to rest her head on her arms. She feels numb, detached from herself. She wonders if fights like last night’s will always be in their future. She wonders if it’s even worth staying, then curses herself for even thinking it.

“You know,” Anya says, emerging from the office with two pens tucked behind one ear and the ledger in her hands. “If you want a job here, you’ve got it. The younger kids go back to school soon and we need another full-timer around here.” She glares at Bellamy. “This one has to go to college sometime.”

Emori looks at him in surprise. “You didn’t go to college?”

He shrugs. “Never had the money. I figured I’d wait until O graduated college, then go.”

Anya mutters something under her breath, then turns to Emori again. “Anyway, it’s yours if you want it.”

It strikes Emori then that this would be a way to convince John of her intent to stay. Plus, she needs the money, especially if she still lives with John. He can’t keep housing her for free forever.

“Sure.” She gives Anya a smile. Anya’s eyes soften when she does, and for a second, Emori wonders who Anya lost that made her so sad. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I’ll tell Lincoln to put you on the schedule for next week.”

With that, she’s gone, back into the office. Bellamy gives her a shrug and turns back to the freezer, where he’s doing inventory.

After a while, Emori’s phone rings, startling her and cutting through the loud silence of the diner. It’s an unknown number with a Virginia area code, so she picks up, thinking it’s someone she knows - one of John’s friends, maybe, although she doesn’t know why they’d be calling her.

“Good morning, ma’am.” It’s a young male voice, maybe in his twenties, with a Virginia-sweet drawl. “I’m sorry to call so early. Could I speak with Emori, please?”

“That’s me.” She sits up straight, feels her spine stiffen. The voice is friendly enough, but if anything from her past is following her, she won’t think twice about grinding his kindness into dust. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to do this, ma’am, but we’ve got a body here in the morgue we need you to identify. We ran his DNA to get an ID and we have reason to believe you’re the next of kin.”

A lump rises in her throat, choking her. Her bad hand grips the edge of the counter. She must make a sound because Anya and Bellamy turn to her in unison. “I- does he have scars on his face?”

Silence. She hears shuffling of papers, an uncomfortable cough. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s your address? I’ll come tomorrow.” He gives her the address, and she memorizes it, then hangs up without another word. The roaring in her ears crashes down on her, deafening her, swallowing her.

She had told John weeks ago that she wanted to find Otan’s body. “I want a proper burial, at least,” she reasoned to him.

He had resisted the idea, telling her that it was risky, that she shouldn’t go out alone against the people that took her and hurt her. “They probably already destroyed the body,” he had argued. “There’s no point.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” she had said, like it was the most obvious thing. “I’ll come back.”

He had scoffed, the fear of losing her written all over his face. She knew that’s where his anger came from, so she didn’t hold that thought against him. “In my world,” he started, and the hurt in his voice made her want to cry, “when people leave, they don’t come back.”

So she hadn’t left. And now she doesn’t have to.

She knows Otan is dead. She saw him die. So why does this feel like losing him all over again?

“I- I have to go,” she chokes out, sliding from the stool and speed-walking toward the door before Bellamy can ask any questions. She can’t breathe, can barely think anything other than  _ I need to go home, I need to go home, I need to go home. _

She can’t remember how she got back to the apartment – she must have run because she’s gasping for air, tears running down her face as she locks herself in the bathroom, turns on the light and collapses on the corner near the tiny tub. She pulls her knees to her chest and forces herself to breathe deeply, think rationally.  _ It’s fine, you’re fine, you knew he was dead, you wanted to find his body anyway so why is this so DAMN HARD? _

“Emori?” It’s John, voice soft, rough from sleep, muffled through the door. “Emori, are you okay?”

“No,” she chokes out. “Please- can you-“

The door swings open before she can get a thought out. John falls to his knees beside her, tugging at her arm until she pulls her good hand away from her face. He replaces her palm with his, wiping the tears away, his cool skin welcome against her burning cheeks. “What happened?”

He sounds so gentle, so worried, and the vengeful, spiteful place in her heart wants to push him away, make him feel the rejection he made her feel on the bridge. But the bigger part of her is afraid and alone, and she wants him to hold her until this feels like a bad dream.

Idly, she marvels at how adept she is at sectioning herself off into little parts: one that feels love, one that feels fear, one – the worst one – that feels nothing at all. It’s how she’s stayed alive this long, and now that she’s safe, she hates it.

“They called me-“ she gulps down a sob, tries again. “A morgue downstate called me. They found Otan’s body. They want me to ID it tomorrow.”

John’s face falls. He wraps his arms around her, shifting so he’s sitting against the wall and pulling her to him, cradling her head against his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her hair, rocking her back and forth slightly, letting her cry until her tears run out.

“I’ll go with you if you want,” he says tentatively when she sits up and roughly scrubs the tears from her cheeks. She looks at him then, at his earnest eyes and sharp features, and decides that this is the hand of apology he has chosen to extend.

“Okay,” she nods. The look of relief on John’s face is entirely unexpected. “I’m sorry. About that.”

He shrugs. “I get it. You have to relive it over again. But at least you’ll have closure.”

She yawns, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her head aches, her throat too, and she just wants to curl back underneath John’s warm covers and sleep for years.

“Come on,” John says, rising to his knees again and picking her up bridal-style.

She lets out a squeak of surprise. “You’re surprisingly strong,” she says into his neck.

He grumbles wordlessly and sets her down on the bed, pulling back the covers and tucking her in like a child. “Will you stay?” she asks, and the part of her that isn’t numb is elated when he agrees.

He takes off his belt and turns off the light, crawling under the covers and pulling Emori to his chest. She curls into him gratefully, nuzzling into the shirt that smells like him.

“I love you,” he whispers in her ear.

She stops, lets out a tiny gasp. He’s never said it before. She wonders how much it cost him to say it now.

She doesn’t know what’s more shocking: hearing the words, or not having to think about her response. “I love you too,” she whispers back, voice like gravel. “I swear I won’t leave you.”

He kisses her forehead. “I know. I was an idiot yesterday.”

Despite herself, despite everything, she laughs. “Yeah, you were.”

“Will you hold it against me?”

She shakes her head, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his chin. “No.” She pecks him on the lips. “Bygones.”

He snorts. She frowns. “It’s a long story,” he explains. “I’ll tell you next time you need a distraction.”

“Deal,” she sighs out as he leans down to kiss the shell of her ear, her jaw, her nose. She buries her head into his chest and lets herself drift off, lulled by his hands in her hair and his voice under her ear.

* * *

She sleeps for a long time. When she wakes up, it’s mid-afternoon, and John is still there, sleeping soundly with his head buried in her hair. She reaches up with her good hand and strokes his cheek, smiling when his lips twitch at her touch. His hair is falling in his eyes; she fixes that too, then wonders how and why he let it get so long.

He stirs, blinks himself awake, and the sleepy smile he gives her makes her heart jump and melt all at once. “Feel better?” he asks.

She nods. “I haven’t slept that well in years.”

“Me either.” He shifts so they’re lying face-to-face and rests his palm on her cheek. “This is nice,” he murmurs, tracing his fingers over her nose, her tattoo. She hums in agreement, closing her eyes as his thumb follows the arch of ink over her forehead again and again. “Why did you get this?”

She shrugs. “I’ve had it for a long time - longer than I can remember. I think it was a gang thing.”

Her brother had a matching one on his shoulder. Emori remembers watching him while he got it, but she can’t remember what it was like to get her own. It always bothered her.

“Huh.” He strokes the lines that curl over her cheek. “Do you have any more?”

“Tattoos?” She nods. “Here.” She lifts the hem of her shirt to show him the broken infinity sign over her ribcage. “It’s a long story.” She parrots his words as way of explanation.

“Well,” he murmurs, ghosting a finger over the small patch of ink, “we have forever to hear each other’s.”

Internally, Emori starts at the word “forever” but she doesn’t show it, too preoccupied with the feeling of his hand skimming over her rib cage, down and over her stomach, which growls under his hand, almost on cue. She laughs, and he groans, “You haven’t eaten?”

“I had coffee at the diner!” she defends.

“That’s not-“ He sighs. “What’s your favorite comfort food?”

Emori doesn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

John is confused, she can tell. “Like, what do you eat when it’s cold out or you’re sad? What kind of food makes you feel better?”

She frowns. “I don’t know. I just eat whatever’s put in front of me. Food is food; you’re lucky if you get it at all.”

John groans. “So all the food you’ve eaten here, you could have hated it and I wouldn’t have been able to tell?”

“No!” She’s quick to reassure him, especially in the wake of their fight. “I liked it, really.”

John doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go, much to her relief. “Okay, I’m gonna make you my favorite comfort food, and you’re going to stay here and rest.” When she opens her mouth to protest, he pokes her in the stomach until she’s too busy laughing to be upset. “I’m serious. You need it. You need to be taken care of.”

Emori knows that this too is his way of making amends. She lets him go, smiling softly when he pecks her on the lips before leaving the bed. It’s cold without him and far more empty. She suddenly can’t remember what it was like sleeping alone.

When he comes back in with a plate and a mug, she's dozing off again. He puts the food on the bedside table and kisses her softly, the fondest smile on his face. “Time for lunch,” he says, brushing some hair from her forehead. 

She sits up and gratefully accepts the warm plate. “What is this?”

“Grilled cheese with chicken,” he says. “And chips. It's good; trust me.”

She takes a bite, chewing slowly. “It's good,” she nods, hoping John will teach her how to make it someday, since it's his comfort food, too.

“Good.” He disappears into the kitchen and grabs a plate of his own, returning to sit beside her. They eat in silence for a few minutes, just basking in the warmth and safety of each other. Emori feels worn out, like she's run an entire marathon, and she can't even think about tomorrow’s impending trip without feeling tears prick at her eyes. 

“Otan used to let me help him when I was sad,” she says suddenly. John looks at her with interest. “When I was a kid, I mean. He'd let me go through what we'd stolen that day. One time we ended up with a ring and an earring - I don't remember how. He let me keep the earring because I thought it was pretty.”

“He always tried to take care of me,” she adds. “Sometimes he was too idealistic and made dumb choices that left us out of a home or food, but I was never mad - not really. He was trying.”

“I'm glad you had someone to love you,” he tells her. He touches his hand to her cheek and she leans into it, smiling. A weight is off her chest. She wishes she could live in this moment forever, hold onto the safety and peace of this room and John’s soft eyes. 

“Will you come with me?” she asks. “I don't think I can go alone.” The confession is bitter, but necessary. 

John’s eyes widen in surprise, but he nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

She cradles the plate carefully in her bad hand and scoots up to lean against his chest. His free arm wraps loosely around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” he begins after a moment. “Bellamy and Anya called. They're worried about you. What should I tell them?”

Suddenly, Emori feels guilty, both for running out on their kindness and never turning back to explain. “You can tell them what happened. I don't care.”

John grabs his phone, texting with one thumb. “Anya gave me a job,” she tells him. “Does that mean you'll let me pay for half the stuff around here?”

John waits until he finishes the text to answer. “Depends.” His voice is guarded, but not combative. “Do you want to stay here? Or get your own place?”

Emori doesn't even have to think. “I want to live here. With you. If you want me to.”

He bends to kiss her, soft and strong all at once. “Yes,” he murmurs against her lips. “Yes, yes, yes.”

She laughs, the sound raspy, and kisses his cheek. “Does that mean you'll keep cooking for me?”

John grins. “Yeah, yeah. Now finish your lunch.”

She does, and so does he, and they lay together a while longer. Eventually, when the sun goes down and the well-meaning guilt at a wasted day sets in, she gets up to help with housework while John does laundry, and then he teaches her how to make a pot roast for dinner.

“You really like to cook,” she notes with a laugh as he carefully sprinkles spices over the warm roast.

He shrugs self-consciously. “My dad taught me. It’s how I still feel close to him.” He doesn’t meet her eyes while he speaks; she realizes this is probably the first time he’s ever admitted it to anyone.

“Do you miss him?” she asks, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, reaching around him for the paper towels that will serve as their napkins.

He nods, blinks hard a few times. “I think he would have liked you,” he tells her, voice rough. “I think he would have told me that you were his future daughter-in-law.”

Emori laughs as she wraps her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. “I wish I could have met him.”

She hears him sigh, feels him swallow and square his shoulders, then lets him turn around. He hugs her, holding her tightly and burying his head in her neck. She lets him stand there a while, offering what little comfort she can.

They both have people to mourn, she realizes. She’s still working on it. It seems like he hasn’t even started.

She eats quickly and quietly, too anxious about the impending visit to the morgue to concentrate. John is watching her with careful eyes, worried eyes, but she’s glad he chooses not to speak. Suddenly she’s drained, her body heavy and tired, her eyes like lead. She wants to sleep forever, even though she already wasted the day.

John does the dishes while she washes her face and puts on one of his shirts and the big fleece pants John made Raven loan her. She takes in her appearance in the dirty bathroom mirror: red eyes, swollen lips, full cheeks. She looks better than she did five months ago - or at least, she would if she hadn’t been crying for most of the day.

The thought of making the trip to the morgue fills her with dread. She leans forward, clutching the edge of the laminate countertop, and focuses on not throwing up.

“Mori?” John taps on the door. “You okay?”

She sniffs, forces herself to release the counter. “Yeah.” She flicks off the light and opens the door. He’s hovering in the doorway, face poised like he’s about to ask a question.

“John?” She frowns, tilts her head. He swallows, fidgets with his jeans.

“If you want to share a bed... I mean, if that’s something you’re comfortable with…”

She feels her tired face split into a grin.  _ He trusts me he trusts me he trusts me. _

“Yes,” she says simply, taking his hand and pulling him into his room. They sleep soundly that night - she without nightmares, he without fear.

* * *

They don’t talk on the way to the morgue. John drives with one hand on the wheel. The other hand rests atop her bad one, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the wrap. She wishes she could feel his skin on hers, but she can’t even move, and can barely hold onto a train of thought. She wants to be anywhere but here.

The sky is grey and dark, rain falling in fat, drenching drops. John has the windows rolled down just a crack, letting the breeze roll in. Emori breathes in the moist air and tries to focus on the small things.

John lets her sit in the parking lot for a while. She swings her legs out of the car, planting her feet on the uneven, wet pavement, and leans the side of her head against the headrest.

“You don’t have to do this,” John murmurs behind her. She doesn’t turn to look at him. “We can come back another day.”

She shakes her head. Before she is anything else, she is stubborn as hell, especially when it comes to her loyalty. “I have to say goodbye,” she whispers, feeling a tear fall from her eye and roll to the tip of her nose. If anyone asks, it’s really rain.

“Okay.” John unbuckles his seatbelt. She hears his door slam, then sees him walk around toward her. He kneels in front of her and takes her hands. “I’m going to be right there. You’re going to be okay.”

She nods, sucks in a deep breath, and gets to her feet. John doesn’t let go of her hand the entire time.

The morgue staff are just the right blend of charming and sympathetic; Emori doesn’t hate them, and John isn’t being his usual asshole self, although Emori can’t tell if that’s just because he doesn’t want to make this harder for her.

She stands behind the glass window, just like in the movies, and waits for the body to be rolled out. She sees his face, and her whole body goes numb. Even though the body is decayed and deformed, she knows it’s him.

“Yes,” she says, her voice coming timid and small. “Yes,” she says again, louder. “That’s him.”

They go into the hall so Emori can sign paperwork and arrange for his body to be cremated. It’s only sheer willpower and a lifetime of acting experience that keeps her from screwing that up. When they make it into the lobby and no one else is in sight, she sags against John’s side and buries her head in his shoulder. He wraps one around around her waist and props her up with the other.

“You did good,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She follows him obediently, walking numbly to the parking lot, stopping abruptly when she see three cars parked around John’s. Those weren’t there before.

“John?” Her voice is sharp, needle-thin and dangerous. She tugs on his arm until he stops. “Those cars weren’t here when we got here. And no one else came into the building.”

John laughs, not unkindly. “Mori, no. That’s Raven’s car, that’s Bellamy’s and that’s Lincoln’s.”

Emori feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She should have recognized them. She’s about to say something when Anya rolls down Lincoln’s window and sticks her head out.

“What are you doing here?” John asks, jamming his free hand into his pocket and tightening his grip on Emori’s waist.

“We heard what happened,” Octavia shouts from Bellamy’s front seat. “We wanted to come be supportive and shit.”

“Language!” Anya and Bellamy yell at once. John shakes his head ruefully and starts walking toward the car again.

“I didn’t tell them,” he says.

Emori nods. “It’s okay. They would’ve found out eventually.”

“You look like hell,” Bellamy tells Emori when she comes closer. His eyes are soft, worried. Emori looks at Octavia and wonders if the other girl knows how lucky she is to have a brother alive to love her. “What can we do?”

“We?” she asks.

“Yeah, all of us.” Monty leans forward between the two front seats. His dark head poking through is almost comical, were Emori in a better mood. “You’re part of the family now.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Anya says from behind her. “Payroll stipulation of the diner: you’re stuck with all these idiots.”

“She says with affection,” Bellamy grumbles. “So what can we do?”

Emori looks to John, who shrugs. “I just want to go home,” she says, feeling her lip tremble, biting it instead. “I don’t know what to do with-” she waves her arms around “with this.”

“That’s okay,” John says quickly, shooting Bellamy a glare before he can say anything. “Let’s go.”

“Hey.” Anya’s voice stops Emori in her tracks. “You’re not alone anymore, kid. It’s time to start acting like it.”

Those words follow her into the car and onto the highway. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go to the diner instead? I want you to make me some more chili.”

“I can do that at home,” he tells her.

“I know. But home’s so  _ quiet _ . I don’t want to be alone.”

John nods, looking away from the road a split second to smile at her. “Okay. I’ll make you the best damn chili you’ve ever had in your life.”

She smiles, leans back in her seat and takes his hand. “Otan would have liked you too, you know,” she says, thinking back to their conversation in the kitchen last night. “He would’ve said I was too good for you.”

“He’s right,” John laughs.

Emori shakes her head. “No. I don’t deserve anyone like you. I never will.”

He pulls over suddenly, throwing on his hazards and parking on the shoulder. Emori tenses, prepares to ask what’s wrong, if she’s made him angry for disagreeing, but then his lips are crashing onto hers and his hands are in her hair and all she can think is  _ yes please _ .

It’s a good hour before they make it back to the diner.


	8. August: Explaining a Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy can’t help but lean over and kiss that mischievous smirk off her lips. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”
> 
> She smiles. “Yeah. Three times, in fact.”
> 
> “Make it four.” He kisses her cheek. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING**  
>  This chapter contains mentions of drinking and suicidal ideation. Please read with caution. If you need any info or clarification if that sort of thing may trigger you, please message me.

_ What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth. _

_ Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this— _

_ swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood _

_ on the first four knuckles. _

* * *

Murphy thinks he could get used to waking up beside her.

On this particular morning, she’s curled under a mound of blankets despite the August heatwave simmering in the valley. Her body is turned to face him, her face half-buried in the pillows. She looks soft and peaceful like this: messy hair, soft lips, flushed cheeks. 

He reaches out, touches a finger to her cheek. She sighs, nuzzles into his touch, her eyes slowly fluttering open.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says. Sappy? Yes. But it’s worth it to see her blush.

“Hi,” she sighs, scooting over so she can rest her head against his chest. He lets her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, the other one falling over her waist. He kisses her forehead and feels her wrinkle her nose against his shirt.

She likes to be held, he’s noticed, but only like this, where she has a clear line of sight around the room and when she can easily wriggle free in a moment’s notice. Murphy wonders if it’s because she’s used to having to run, or if it’s because she, like him, has been pinned by the unwanted weight of someone else one too many times.

Sometimes, he wants to ask. But he never does, because it’s not worth the pain and anger the question would dredge up in her.

“Sleep well?” she asks, voice muffled.

He shrugs. He hadn’t, not really, but he never does. “Fine, I guess.”

“I felt you moving a lot,” she counters gently. He knows that’s her way of refuting his half-truth. “Nightmares?”

He shrugs again. “No more than usual.” Her bare feet brush against his leg, and he chuckles. “You’re really warm. You should get rid of some of these blankets.”

“I like it,” she mutters, pulling the blankets over her head so only her eyes peek out. She looks like a petulant kid. Murphy tries not to say ‘awww’ out loud.

They doze together for a while, rousing once every few minutes to cuddle closer or kiss the other on the cheek, forehead or lips. The obnoxious sound of his phone echoing from the kitchen is the only reason Murphy even thinks about moving, and that’s only because it keeps ringing, one phone call after another insistently coming in.

“I’d better get it,” he grumbles, kissing Emori on the nose as an apology and slipping out from under the blankets. Even though the temperature outside must be close to 90, the air feels cold.

He grabs his phone the third time it starts to ring. It’s Luna, so he tries to sound civil.

“Hello?”

“Murphy, it’s Luna.” She sounds ragged, not at all like her usual calm, impassive self. “I need you to come help me. Raven needs to get to the hospital.”

His stomach clenches. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“We’re not sure. She can’t move without pain and there’s internal bleeding at her lower back.” Murphy knows now what’s in her voice. It’s fear. “I’m not strong enough to carry her to the car.”

Murphy nods. “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up and all but sprints the ten steps into his bedroom. “I have to go,” he tells Emori, who’s sitting up in bed, both sleepy and confused. “It’s Raven - something happened.”

“I’ll come with you,” she decides, alert in mere seconds. She joins him at the dresser, rifling through the drawer of shirts they both share. She’s dressed before he is and has his keys and two granola bars she insisted on buying last week in her hand by the time he had his shoes on.

“Let’s go,” is all she says, tossing him the keys and pocketing what Murphy assumes is their breakfast. They’re at Raven’s trailer two blown-off stop signs, three potholes, and one bad turn down a one-way street later.

Murphy can sense Emori’s numerous questions as she regards the ugly tan trailer, full of crappy siding, mold and rot. Wisely, she doesn’t ask any questions, just stands aside and lets Murphy use his emergency key to get in.

“Raven?” he calls, not really caring if he wakes up her mother.

“In here,” Luna answers for her. Murphy leaves Emori in the living room and goes toward Raven’s bedroom.

“You called him?” Raven asks, voice tight with pain, eyes incredulous. “What the hell’s he going to do?”

“Carry you, genius,” Murphy responds, standing near the bed. Judging by Raven’s wincing, she can’t feel her legs, but can sure feel her hips. “You need to go to the hospital.” He swallows the lump of guilt and shame in his throat. “It’s probably the bullet fragment shifting again.”

“I don’t need to go anywhere,” Raven snaps without venom.

“Yes, Little Bird,” Luna interrupts. “You do.”

Murphy raises an eyebrow at them both, then scoops Raven carefully into his arms, letting her bury her head in his shoulder and let out a muffled shout of pain. She’s too light, especially without the brace.

He walks slowly and as smoothly as possible, careful not to jolt or jostle her. Emori, who had been perched uncomfortably on the couch, jumps to her feet when she sees them and runs to open the front door.

“Thanks,” he hears Luna murmur to Emori. “Do you have a key?”

“No. John?” Emori calls. Murphy stops, already halfway down the sidewalk, not wanting to climb the three front stairs again lest that cause Raven any more misery.

“Just leave the damn thing,” Raven yells. “There’s nothing in there worth stealing anyway.”

Murphy shrugs, then somehow, through finagling and swearing, gets Raven situated in the back of his car, laying with her head on Luna’s lap and her feet awkwardly hanging off the seat. Murphy speeds to get to the hospital, instructing Emori to call Abby Griffin and let her know what was coming.

“You have Abby on speed dial?” Raven asks, a pained laugh in her voice. “Why?”

Murphy taps his fingers nervously against the wheel, then grips it so tightly his knuckles pop. There’s more traffic than expected going into the hospital, and they haven’t moved in about ten minutes. Emori reaches over, pries one of his hands from the wheel, and laces his fingers through hers.

“In case you did any more dumb shit,” Murphy responds. To his relief, Raven laughs. In the rearview mirror, he catches Luna’s eyes. They’re dark, angry, burning a hole through him.

_ She knows _ , he thinks, and his blood runs cold. Luna is harmless enough until you hurt someone she loves. Murphy’s given Raven enough hurt to last a lifetime.

When they make it to the front doors, Jackson is waiting to carry Raven from the car and into the lobby, where a stretcher is waiting. Murphy has to smile at Raven’s loud and vehement protests that she doesn’t need to be babied.

“Why are you laughing?” Luna asks lowly, harshly, leaning forward to murmur in the ear farthest away from Emori. “You did this to her.”

“I wasn’t laughing,” is all he says. “You gonna get out and go with her, or what?”

Luna sits back, unbuckles her seatbelt, and leans forward again. “Don’t come in until I text you the room number. Understood?”

Murphy says nothing. She gets out, slams the door, and Murphy takes off toward the parking lot. It isn’t until he parks and turns the engine off that Emori starts asking questions.

“What was that about?” she gestures to the back seat while passing Murphy a granola bar. He holds it in his hand, but doesn’t eat it. It’s warm from her pocket.

“Nothing. Old wounds.” The faint scars on his neck itch.

Emori hums, unwrapping her bar. “Eat, John.”

He shakes his head. He can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, drumming out a steady rhythm:  _ Your fault, your fault, your fault.  _ “I’m not hungry.”

Emori sighs. “You need to get better at that.”

“At what? Eating.”

“Taking care of yourself,” she says around a mouthful. 

She leans over and rests her head against his shoulder. He rests his cheek against her hair. “That’s why I have you,” he murmurs, suddenly intensely grateful for her presence, the only thing keeping his self-hatred and fear from spiraling out of control.

She laughs, more like a rush of air than actual sound, and turns to press a kiss to his clothed shoulder. He feels his pulse jump, and the beat of his heart changes:  _ not worthy, not worthy, not worthy _ . What would she say if she knew what he had done?

There’s silence for a moment, then Emori asks, “Why does Raven live there?”

Murphy frowns. Emori sits up to look at him. He misses her warmth. “Her mom is a neglectful bitch,” he starts, righteous vehemence coloring his words. “Raven still feels loyal to her for whatever reason, so she stays.”

“Maybe she has nowhere else to go,” Emori says.

“Bullshit,” Murphy declares. “The Blakes, the Millers, Luna - any one of them would take her. Her boss, Sinclair, has been trying to get her to move in with his family for years.”

“There has to be a reason,” Emori counters. Murphy is about to argue when his phone rings. “Is it Luna?”

Murphy checks the text. “Yeah.” He unbuckles. “You can stay here, if you want.”

Emori’s lips twitch. “I guess she’s my friend too now, right? So I’ll go.”

They walk toward the hospital hand-in-hand. He looks over at her, at her resolute face and squared shoulders, and an overwhelming adoration sweeps over him, threatening to choke him. She’s willing to face anything that hurts him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love.

Abby is leaning against the front desk when they walk in, going over a chart and talking to the man at the desk. When she sees them, she gives Murphy a tight, knowing smile.

“Straight down the hall and all the way back,” she tells him. “But we’re operating soon, so you’ll have to make it quick.”

“Operating?” he asks, mouth dry, nausea rolling his stomach. Emori grips his hand a little tighter. “Was it the bullet?”

Abby nods tersely, eyes darting from him to Emori and back again. She’s gauging whether she should say more in front of an outsider. Murphy shakes his head imperceptibly. Thankfully, Abby gets the message.

They head back to Raven’s room. Bellamy, Miller, Octavia and Monty are already there, perched on her bed or folded up into chairs. It might be his imagination, but Murphy could swear he feels a change in the room when he walks in.

“You’re going under the knife again, huh?” he asks Raven, fighting to keep his voice casual. He takes her hand with his free one and squeezes it. 

Raven nods. “Maybe this’ll be the time they get the hunk of metal out of my back,” she laughs. “Then I can go through metal detectors again.”

Monty laughs. “Sometimes she even sets off store monitors,” he tells the room. “It’s so funny to try to explain that to store personnel.”

“They should just demagnetize you,” Miller says, bouncing his leg, his heel tapping on the floor. “You know, like they do with library books?”

“That's not even what they do,” Bellamy grumbles. 

“Bell,” Octavia leans forward, “you're literally the  _ only  _ person who knows that.”

Miller snorts, pushing himself up in the chair when Luna tells him to stop slouching. “Yo, Em,” he says. “You want to go get coffee?”

It takes Emori a moment to realize he’s talking to her. “Oh.” She looks surprised and a little pleased. “Sure. Monty, John, you want to come?”

“Murphy’s going to stay here,” Bellamy says in the tense tone that means he’s not to be argued with. Murphy feels his blood run cold.

Octavia rolls her eyes, hopping off Raven’s bed. “At least if you kill each other, you’re doing it in a hospital.” She grabs her purse. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”

Emori gives Murphy a wary look. “I’ll be okay,” he says, kissing the back of her hand and finally releasing it from his tight grip. “Go on.”

He watches her leave for as long as he can before Bellamy closes the door.

“Bellamy, don’t-” Raven starts before Bellamy holds up his hand, stepping forward so he’s practically in Murphy’s face.

“I’m not going to do this here,” he says in Murphy’s ear. “I don’t want to upset Raven.”

“Why are you doing it at all?” Murphy retorts. “I thought we were past this.”

“I thought so too.” Bellamy’s voice is biting. “But every time your screw-up causes my friend any more pain, we go right back to the start.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Murphy snarls, no longer caring if Raven hears. “She was  _ my  _ friend long before she was yours.”

“Murphy!” Raven barks. “Bellamy! Stop!”

Luna strides forward, grabs hold of both Bellamy and Murphy’s arms. Her grip is bruising. “Outside. Now,” she growls, marching them both toward the door.

Once they’re in the deserted hall, Bellamy turns on Murphy again. “Do you get it yet?” He shoves the younger man. “Are you sorry yet? She has to go into more surgery, more pain, more debt, and it’s all because of  _ you _ .”

Murphy feels tears of frustration and hurt prick at his eyes. “I get it!” He explodes. “I’ve always gotten it! I didn’t even mean to shoot her - I was aiming for Octavia!”

Silence. Murphy realizes he has truly fucked up.

“You son of a bitch.” Bellamy lurches forward, planting his forearm against Murphy’s shoulder and driving him into the wall. His arm slides up, pressing against Murphy’s throat, and fear roars through him. “I ought to kill you.”

“That’s enough,” Luna’s calm voice breaks through the roaring in Murphy’s ears. Bellamy releases him and Murphy coughs once, then again, and rubs at the aching parts of his throat. “We agreed we’d talk to him about Raven, not anything else. You two can fight that out on your own time.”

Bellamy rakes a hand through his hair. “Are you even sorry?” he asks, voice trembling. “Look at what you did to your supposed best friend. It’s been a year, and she’s still suffering.”

“I am sorry!” Murphy all but screams. “I’m sorry every damn day, Bellamy. I can’t even look at her without being sorry! Don’t you think I hate myself for it? Because I do. So shut the fuck up, because you have no  _ fucking clue  _ what you’re talking about.”

He sucks in a deep breath. “If I could go back and undo it, I would. You have to believe me. I am sorry.”

Bellamy regards him. “Does she know all this?”

Murphy nods. “Yeah. I told her a while ago.”

Bellamy nods. Luna blows out a breath. “And when were you going to tell me that you planned on shooting my sister?” Bellamy’s dangerous voice is back. Luna rolls her eyes.

“You two can do this on your own time,” she mutters again, turning back to Raven’s room.

“Fuck off, Bellamy,” is all Murphy says, angry again. Bellamy draws his hand back and punches Murphy straight in the stomach. He doubles over, and Bellamy slams him into the wall, shoving him so hard his head cracks against the plaster. A searing pain rips through him, and he shouts, but doesn’t let go. He manages to get one punch in - a solid one against Bellamy’s cheek - but that’s all the leverage he can gain.

“Get the hell away from him!” Emori appears seemingly out of nowhere. She pries Bellamy away from Murphy, twisting his arm back and forcing him to his knees, standing over him like an avenging angel. Murphy fights to drag air back into his lungs, rubbing his head. Some blood comes away on his fingertips.

“If it wasn’t for the fact that Raven needs all of her friends and Octavia needs her brother, I would be beating your pretty little face into an unrecognizable pulp,” she hisses, her smaller hand wrapped loosely around Bellamy’s neck, her thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat. “Don’t test me. You don’t know what kind of damage I can do.”

She turns to Murphy, reaches for his hand, winces when she sees the blood on his nails. “And stay away from John,” she adds to Bellamy over her shoulder, guiding Murphy out of the hallway and out to the now-deserted waiting room.

Once he stumbles to a chair, he clutches at Emori’s larger hand while the world tilts on its axis. He can’t form a coherent thought, can only struggle to breathe and stay still while Emori’s gentle fingers probe the broken skin at the back of his head.

“I don’t think you have a concussion,” she murmurs. “But we should check with Abby just to be safe.”

Murphy snorts. The action makes his head hurt worse.

“Murphy?” Clarke’s surprised voice makes Murphy wince. “What happened?”

“Does he have a concussion?” Emori asks, voice hard, telling Clarke without saying anything that she’s not in the mood for small talk. “Your mother’s a doctor; wouldn’t you know these things?”

Clarke twists her lips in an amused smile for about half a second before bending to stare at Murphy’s face. He doesn’t want to, but he lets her, knowing Emori will riot if he doesn’t sit still. She grabs a small light from her pocket and shines it near his eyes. “No, no concussion. He’s going to be fine.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Was it Bellamy again?”

Emori nods. Murphy keeps his eyes on the floor. “I’m going to kill him,” Clarke mutters, stalking toward Raven’s room, a woman on a mission.

Emori smooths some hair back from his forehead. “Want to tell me what that was all about?

Murphy shakes his head. “You’ll hate me.”

Emori takes his hand, kisses the bruised knuckles. “Try me.”

“I shot her.” The confession is bitter. “It’s my fault Raven wears a brace.”

He lifts his eyes to meet Emori’s. She’s looking at him, brows raised as if to say  _ go on _ .

So he does. “I didn’t mean to. It was- I was aiming for Octavia. To piss Bellamy off. I didn’t want to hit anyone.” He feels a tear run from the corner of his eye down toward his nose. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“John…” Emori sighs, wiping his tear away and curling her hand around the hair at the back of his neck. “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay. I don’t think less of you.”

“Like I keep telling you,” he laughs without humor, “I’m a shitty person.”

Emori smirks. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Murphy figures he might as well lay out all his sins now. “My dad died because of me. My mom drank herself to death because of me. Raven has to undergo a third fucking operation because of me.”

“Stop it.” Emori gives his hair a gentle tug. “Look at me.” She waits until he meets her eyes to continue. “You made some shitty choices, John. You’re an ugly, hateful boy sometimes. But,” she raises her malformed hand - which is unwrapped, Murphy notices in surprise - “you’re trying to be better. That’s all any of us can do, is try.”

“It’s not your fault that your father’s dead, and your mother’s drinking was her choice. Sure, Raven can’t use her leg, but you’ve made amends, or are trying to. And your friends still love you. I still love you.”

He smiles slightly, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs against her skin. “I am trying to be a good person. For you.”

She cups his cheek in her hand. “I know.”

He looks down, reaching for her left hand, turning it over. “It’s unwrapped.”

She looks down, blinking in surprise. Her body goes rigid, her eyes growing darker and darker. “I was in such a hurry, I forgot,” she mutters.

Murphy runs his fingers over the knobby bones and rough skin. “Badass,” he says, tapping on the scar around her wrist.

“Liar.” But she kisses him, so he figures she’s not too angry.

* * *

Raven isn’t going to get out of surgery for a few hours, so Murphy and Emori go back to town. He’s not happy to be there - he’s full of nervous energy and anxiety, imagining Raven under the knife - so Emori distracts him by taking him to the diner.

“John needs a distraction,” she tells Anya firmly. “Can he train me?”

“I don’t give a shit,” Anya says with a flip of her hair. “If this is your idea of date night, go nuts.”

“It’s not,” he grumbles, “but thanks.”

He starts off by showing her the menu. “We all have it memorized, but Lincoln put cheat sheets back here.” He shows her the laminated page, then elbows Monty gently in the side until he slides over so Emori can look into the fridge.

“It’s so organized,” she says with surprise. 

Murphy shrugs. “We try.”

“No,  _ we _ don’t,” Monty says without looking over. “I’m the only one that cleans that thing.”

“I cleaned it yesterday,” Harper says from over the counter, voice taking on a jokingly offended tone.

“My mistake.” Monty winks at her, then smiles. Murphy and Emori share a look.

“What’s with that?” she asks under her breath, gesturing to them.

Murphy shrugs. “Beats me.” He’ll never say it out loud, but he’s happy for them.

Next, he takes Emori into the office and shows her where Anya keeps the schedule, then points to the sheet of butcher paper pinned haphazardly to the wall.

“‘Catch of the Day’?” Emori reads aloud, looking at him questioningly. “What does that mean?”

“Whenever someone says something dumb, we write it up there,” Murphy explains. “It’s usually dumb shit Bellamy or Miller say when they’re tired or hungover, but it’s funny.”

Emori narrows her eyes at the paper, reading the quotes scrawled over the paper, occasionally smiling or laughing to herself. Murphy looks over her shoulder, stepping forward so her back brushes against his chest.

“Hey,” she murmurs after a moment, leaning back so her head rests against his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. Instinctively, his arms come up to wrap around her waist. He can’t resist touching her, he realizes. He has to make sure she won’t disappear.

The rush of fear and inadequacy he felt in the hospital comes back. He tightens his grip on her just a fraction. She lets out a hum of slight surprise, but doesn’t stop reading or turn to ask what’s wrong. 

“Heard Raven’s in the hospital,” Anya says by way of greeting, barging into the office with a filing box in her hands. “She okay?”

Murphy feels his hand twitch. He knots one into the loose fabric of Emori’s shirt. “I hope so.” He tries to sound flippant, and fails. He sounds tense, anxious and afraid.

Anya frowns, an almost-imperceptible crease of her brow. Her sharp eyes travel over them both, their closeness, Emori’s pursed lips, her hand hidden in the folds of the massive shirt that used to be Murphy’s.

“What’s with that?” Anya asks, gesturing to the hidden appendage.

Emori grimaces, then reveals it slowly. Murphy feels his heart clench. “I usually cover it up,” she says, “but we had to get to Raven’s. It doesn’t keep me from working.”

Her jaw ticks. Murphy realizes she’s afraid that it will keep her from everything she’s trying to build for herself, and he guesses that fear is directly connected to her fear of inadequacy.

“I don’t care about that,” Anya waves dismissively. “Why do you hate it?”

Emori blinks, surprised. “Because it’s ugly,” she says, lifting her chin. “Because it’s the reason my mother didn’t love me.”

“If a mother doesn’t love her child because of how they were born, she’s not fit to be a mother. Mothers should always feel lucky to have a child.” Anya’s eyes are stone, her voice nearly wavering. Murphy thinks back to the small photo of a little girl he once saw in Anya’s wallet and wonders if Anya is speaking from experience.

Emori nods once, looks down, and lets her hand hang at her side. Murphy releases her waist and takes her left hand in his. The rough skin scrapes against his. When he runs his thumb over the back of it, he feels her wrist twitch. Pride swells in him. She is so brave in this moment, and he loves her for it.

“Your hand might be fucked up,” Anya says as an afterthought as she turns to leave, holding the office door open for Lincoln, who has the cash handling bag tucked under his arm. “But as long as you work hard and stay tough, I won’t have any complaints.”

Murphy sees Lincoln’s eyes go to Emori’s hand. Again, he tenses. He doesn’t know if Emori can sense it or not.

“You can’t control how you came into the world,” Lincoln says mildly, giving Emori a gentle smile. “Only what you do once you’re here.”

Emori swallows, nods sharply, and whispers something under her breath that Murphy doesn’t catch. She then tugs on his hand and pulls him from the office, leaning against the door once they’re back in the kitchen and looking up at him with shining eyes.

“I thought they’d care,” she whispers, holding up her hand in plain view. Murphy realizes those are tears in her eyes. “Why don’t they?”

His heart breaks when he realizes that she’s accustomed to hatred, disgust, disdain - all because of what she looks like and where she comes from. She can’t understand their acceptance or their love. It makes him want to protect her from the world and unleash holy hell on everyone who disrespects her for something she can’t help.

He then realizes, with a start, that this is something with which he is all too familiar.

“How you felt in there,” he starts, voice low, eyes not meeting hers, “is how I feel all the time. I don’t deserve these guys as friends, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you.”

“That’s not-”

“Mori, please.” He sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets. Emori reaches out without a word and wraps her smaller fingers around his wrist, tugging it back out so she can hold his hand. “I hurt her,” he whispers, voice breaking as he imagines Raven in the operating room, remembers Luna’s anger and Bellamy’s hatred. “I hurt all of them. And I don’t know if they’re truly my friends, or just pretending, but I don’t deserve any of it.”

Emori shrugs. “Maybe not.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “But you have it. It’s called grace, John. And it’s not something you can earn. It’s something you accept.”

Harper calls to Emori then, and she steps away, leaving Murphy staring at a closed wooden door, pondering the strange concept of unconditional love.

* * *

 

He really shouldn’t be drinking.

It’s quarter past midnight and he’s sitting on the couch in the dark, a half-empty bottle of vodka beside him and his revolver and cell phone on the table in front of him. 

The operation had gone wrong. Raven wasn’t waking up, and when Bellamy called him, he let Murphy know in no uncertain terms what that meant for him.

“Luna doesn’t want you here,” he had said, voice exhausted and devoid of emotion. “I don’t think anyone else does either.”

Murphy had hung up after that, pretended to go to bed with Emori, then waited until she was asleep to drown his sorrows. He pulled out the alcohol, then the weapon that destroyed the only decent friendship he had, and punished himself with both.

Now, he stares at the gun, picks it up, tests the weight in his hands. It’s a bad idea, what he’s thinking of, but he can’t remember why. Everything is fuzzy, dreamlike, and he’s so tired of being wrong, so tired of the twisted thing inside of him ruining everything. What’s the harm? One squeeze of the trigger and it’s over. No one will be hurt by him anymore.

To test his resolve, he puts the gun to his chin and pulls back the hammer. His finger trembles on the trigger, resists, and then he drops it back to the table, letting out a choked sob.

“I can’t do it,” he mumbles to no one in particular. The night is too quiet and he’s alone and he just wants it to be  _ over _ .

“Can’t do what?” Emori appears in the hallway, leaning against the wall near the couch. Murphy blinks, surprised. He forgot about her. Was she the reason he couldn’t pull the trigger? “Oh, John,” she sighs, taking in the bottle and the gun. She sits beside him and he, numbly, hands over the bottle at her insistence.

She looks at the gun, then at him. “Were you going to shoot yourself?”

He nods, hanging his head. He just wants to sleep. He just wants his heart to stop hurting.

She doesn’t say anything, just takes the bullets from the gun and puts the safety back on. “Come here,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her. He buries his head in her chest and cries.

“If I were you,” he hears her whisper, “I would have shot myself too.” He doesn’t know what she means, but it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s here, what he’s done doesn’t seem so bad.

“I’m sorry,” he says through his tears.  _ Sorry for my weakness. Sorry for my selfishness. Sorry I’m not even a fraction of the man you deserve. _

She kisses the top of his head. “Don’t be sorry, John. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t pull the trigger. You’re okay.”

He dimly remembers her convincing him to drink a glass of water and take painkillers, but he doesn’t remember how he got to their bed. When he wakes up the next morning - really, afternoon, according to Emori - his headache is manageable and his shame is palpable.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says to Emori, who’s standing in their bedroom, the contents of her dwindling duffle bag of stolen tech spread out on the floor. She’s been pawning it off, he learned a few weeks ago, which explains how she got the money she left for him to use on groceries.

She climbs up on the bed, kisses his forehead, smooths his hair away from his face. “Don’t be. We’ve all had bad nights.” She fiddles with the wrap around her hand, unties it, shows Murphy the scar on her wrist. “I was drunk when I decided to take it off.”

“You could have bled out,” he murmurs, reaching for her wrist.

She shrugs. “At that point, I’m not sure I cared.”

Murphy presses a kiss to the scar. She lets out a soft noise and turns her head away, so he does it again and again until she looks at him, a single tear rolling over her cheeks. She looks the same as she did when he found her at the beach: vulnerable, small, desperate to be safe. 

He hopes he’s giving that to her.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry for everything.”

She shakes her head, moves to sit cross-legged on the bed. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, John. I’ll love you no matter what.”

Unconditional. The concept makes Murphy’s heart beat faster. He looks at her and has one wild thought. 

_ I’m going to marry her someday. _

But, of course, he’s not going to tell her that. Not yet.

* * *

Raven comes home from the hospital two weeks later. She had a seizure during the operation, according to Abby, but she’s fine now, as long as she takes her medication. Rather than going back home to her mom, Bellamy convinces Raven to stay with him and Octavia and take the room that once belonged to their mother.

“It’s a battle getting her to take those damn pills,” Octavia grumbles to Murphy one morning when they’re opening the diner. “School starts in a week - thank God - so now it’s Bell’s responsibility.”

“How’s he going to manage that?” Murphy asks with a smirk.

“Hell if I know,” Octavia laughs.

“Watch your fucking language!” Anya shouts from the dining room. Murphy, Emori and Octavia exchange a look, then burst out laughing. In the dining room, Lexa, Clarke and Bellamy bury their heads in their hands and folded arms so Anya can’t see their reaction.

“When our shift’s up,” Emori murmurs in Murphy’s ear when she passes by him to do the dishes, “let’s go on a date.”

Murphy nods. “Okay. Where?”

Emori grins. “Anywhere you want.”

Murphy can’t help but lean over and kiss that mischievous smirk off her lips. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

She smiles. “Yeah. Three times, in fact.”

“Make it four.” He kisses her cheek. “I love you.”

Amid choruses of mock-disgusted groans and wolf-whistles, Emori kisses him full on the mouth ( _ with tongue,  _ Lexa points out). Their catcalls turn to cheers when Raven limps into the diner on Luna’s arm.

Murphy approaches the counter, meeting Luna’s stony stare, then looking warily to Raven.

She blinks at him for a second, then gives him her characteristic smirk. “What does a girl have to do to get some coffee around here?” she asks, smiling at him as if to say  _ it’s okay _ .

“Ask nicely,” he retorts after a moment, reaching for her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “Please?”

Luna leans forward. “Give her decaf,” she whispers. Raven elbows her in the side. Octavia snorts, and Murphy can hear Emori laugh. The sound fills his heart with something not unlike joy.

“You okay?” Emori asks him as he fills Raven’s mug, compromising her desires and Luna’s request with half-caf.

Murphy feels himself smile. “Yeah. Perfect.”

Sappy? Yes. But it’s worth it to see her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the epilogue!! :D


	9. Epilogue: December, Three Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After she gives her gift, Murphy’s going to give Emori hers. His heart is pounding in his chest, his hands shaking no matter how hard he balls them into fists.
> 
> “I got John,” Emori says softly, a laugh in her voice. “And my present is...sort of a big deal, I guess. So get ready.”
> 
> She hands Murphy an envelope, then sits back in her stool, biting her lip as he turns it over in his hand.
> 
> “Open it!” Lexa shouts, craning her neck. Murphy carefully undoes the seal, then pulls the single sheet of paper out.
> 
> “Holy shit,” he breathes, his trembling hands nearly wrinkling the paper. “Is this-”

_ We pull our boots on with both hands _ _   
_ _ but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do _ _   
_ _ is stand on the curb and _ say   
Sorry __ about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

_ I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time. _

* * *

 

**Three years and four months later…**

“Are you doing it tonight?” Raven asks Murphy under her breath from where she’s perched next to him on one of the diner’s bar stools, letting her bad leg dangle off the edge.

Murphy taps the small, wrapped gift on the counter beside him, nodding slightly. “She can read lips,” he hisses, “so watch it.”

Raven grins brightly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “I’m so excited! But are you sure you don’t want to do it alone, just the two of you?”

Murphy shakes his head. “We’d end up texting all of you anyway.”

Raven laughs. “You’ve both come far since you met. Remember when she hated all of us?”

“I never hated you,” Emori says, sitting on Murphy’s other side. She kisses his cheek. “I just wasn’t sure what to do with you.”

Murphy gently smacks Emori’s hand away when she reaches for her present. “No, Mori,” he says as if she’s a naughty child. “Wait until we exchange gifts.”

“Can I guess?” she asks, lips pursed in a tiny pout. Murphy fights the urge to kiss her.

“No!” he exclaims. “You always guess right and it isn’t any fun.”

Emori smirks. “True. I am good.”

“Damn right,” Raven laughs, and the two high-five over Murphy’s head.

“God help us,” Luna mutters as she passes, giving Murphy a conspiratorial look. Murphy chuckles and grins, the butterflies in his stomach churning.

“Can we exchange gifts now or what?” Octavia shouts over the chatter and the Christmas music coming from Lincoln’s repurposed jukebox, which sits in the corner lit up in red and green. The entire friend group, plus their significant others, Anya, and Lincoln, had drawn a name out of a bucket right after Thanksgiving. Murphy got Octavia, and he’s pretty sure Emori got him, which was surprising, but welcome.

Obediently, the music is turned down and everyone moves tables and chairs to sit in a circle. Octavia sits next to Monty on the floor, and there’s a space between them meant to be filled by someone who will never show up. Harper leans against Monty’s shoulder, her other arm around Lexa. Bellamy, Clarke, Miller and Lincoln sit on the booths closest to the circle, and Luna hikes herself up to sit next to Raven.

“Who wants to go first?” Lincoln asks, barely getting the question out before Anya steps over Monty to give an envelope to Bellamy. “Well, okay then.”

“Consider this your reward for being the diner’s first employee and getting Baby Blake into college. And no, you can’t give this back,” she says firmly, stepping back and watching him tear it open.

“Oh my gosh,” Clarke breathes at the same time Bellamy half-yells, “What?!”

“What is it?” Octavia asks, jumping up to look over her brother’s shoulder. “Holy  _ shit _ , Bellamy!”

“I can’t take this-” he starts to protest.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Anya grumbles. “You can, and you will. Get your ass in college with that money. Become a teacher and make sure all those kids-” she gestures out the window toward the elementary school, “turn out as good as you.”

She sits down with a decisive nod, and Bellamy thanks her quietly, looking to Clarke, then to Octavia, lost for words.

“You deserve it,” Clarke whispers, leaning forward to give Bellamy a kiss. Bellamy shakes his head wordlessly.

The exchange goes on after that. Octavia appreciates the pocketknife Murphy gives her, though he doesn’t miss the angry glares Bellamy shoots him. Emori insists on going last, so when it gets to her turn, Murphy can already tell that the entire diner is quietly buzzing with curiosity and anticipation.

After she gives her gift, Murphy’s going to give Emori hers. His heart is pounding in his chest, his hands shaking no matter how hard he balls them into fists.

“I got John,” Emori says softly, a laugh in her voice. “And my present is...sort of a big deal, I guess. So get ready.”

She hands Murphy an envelope, then sits back in her stool, biting her lip as he turns it over in his hand.

“Open it!” Lexa shouts, craning her neck. Murphy carefully undoes the seal, then pulls the single sheet of paper out.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his trembling hands nearly wrinkling the paper. “Is this-”

Emori nods, lower lip trembling as she wraps her arms loosely around her torso. “Flip it over.”

He does. Written in Emori’s distinctive hand is  _ Baby Murphy. 19 weeks.  _ And below it,  _ Surprise, John! It’s a girl. _

“Emori-” he chokes out, tears in his eyes. “Holy  _ shit _ .” He pulls her arms away from her torso and rests his hand over her stomach. There’s no bump yet, but his heart swells with love for the tiny baby that’s there, right under his palm. He can’t tear his eyes away from the ultrasound photo, either, but makes himself when Raven snatches the paper from his shaking hand with a happy shout.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers to Emori, kissing her temple. “I can’t believe it.”

“Are you upset?” she asks, doubt in her eyes.

Murphy shakes his head. “Never.” He kisses her forehead until her nervous frown smooths out. “I’m going to be a dad!”

“Hell yeah!” Anya, who has seemingly gotten over her shock, yells.

“And actually…” he pushes his present toward Emori and the entire room goes silent as Raven shushes them loudly. “This fits perfectly with my present.”

“Oh?” she asks, face glowing as she beams up at him, obviously relieved that he’s not angry. As if he ever could be. “Does this mean I can finally open it?”

He nods, the nerves threatening to overwhelm him. “Yep.”  _ Please let her say yes. _

* * *

Emori takes the small package, curiosity calming the adrenaline still rushing through her. She wasn’t sure if the anxiety surrounding her gift was good for the baby, but she couldn’t think of a better way to reveal her pregnancy than surrounded by all their friends. She knew John wouldn’t mind, either, which is the only other reason she had done it.

She carefully unwraps the ribbon tied around the package, watching the ultrasound photo pass from hand to hand around the circle, while all eyes remain on her. Briefly, she wonders if there’s something the others know that she doesn’t, because the atmosphere is too expectant for this to be any ordinary present. Disappointingly, no one’s eyes give anything away.

“Just rip into it, Emori!” Raven says, leaning forward, eyes bright. Emori rips into the paper, tossing it aside to reveal a small white box.

“John, what-”

“Open it,” he says, voice unreadable. Emori does so, and lets out a gasped “oh!,” touching the delicate gold band with one finger. “John, is this-”

When she looks up, John is down on one knee, and the entire room is holding its breath.

“I knew I wanted to marry you three years and four months ago,” he says. Emori feels her chest tighten and tears prick at her eyes. “And I’ve never changed my mind. I want to wake up with you in our shitty apartment and live my boring life with you because you make it less boring. You make it perfect. I want to love you even when - and especially when - you don’t love yourself. I promise to try every day to be the person you think I am, the person our daughter will be proud of.”

He reaches for the box and turns it toward her. “Will you marry me?”

She reaches out blindly, grips the edge of the counter tightly, her thoughts scattering. “I- I don’t have a left ring finger,” is all she can think of to say.

He laughs, more nervously than anything else, and reaches up to pull the ring out of the box. “It’s on a chain, babe. See?”

“You really do think of everything,” she laughs, wiping a runaway tear from the corner of her eye. She reaches for his hand and pulls him to his feet, wrapping her arms around his shoulder. “Yes, John,” she says, sniffling slightly. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Thank God!” he exclaims in a rush of breath, bending down to kiss her, then wrapping her in a hug as the entire room breaks out in cheers. When he puts the ring around her neck, she touches it and smiles.

“Finally!” Raven exclaims, throwing up her hands and giving Monty a high-five. “I’ve known about this for months! The suspense was killing me!”

“You knew?” Emori asks, laughing when Raven nods dramatically. “And I never even had a clue.” She looks up at John. “You’re learning the art of the con. I’m so proud.”

“Dude, we love you, but move,” Miller tells him. “We wanna see the ring more than your ugly mug.”

Obediently, Murphy steps aside, staying close to Emori, his hand in hers, as her old family celebrates the start of her new one.

* * *

The next morning, she goes to the gravestone she erected for her brother after his cremation and tells him the news.

“Thanks for bringing us here, Otan. To Virginia, I mean.” she finishes. “I owe you one. Actually…” she touches her stomach. “I owe you everything.”

She turns, feet crunching in the fresh Christmas snow, and goes to join John at his parents’ graves.

“Hi, future parents-in-law,” she says to the weathered stones. The smile John gives her is blinding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The end!
> 
> I wanted to give the biggest of thanks to Megan, aka **interlude** here on Ao3 for her tireless, inspiring and thorough editing of this entire story. Also, THANK YOU to biextroverts and maeldify for your amazing reviews.
> 
> And to everyone who read this, commented or left kudos, I endlessly appreciate your love for this story. It's been really great to share this weird AU with you.


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